


Under Control

by LapisLazuli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Little Bit of Humor, A little bit of fluff, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come play, Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Please note, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Threesome fic not polyamory fic, Voyeurism, breath play, lots of hardcore sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapisLazuli/pseuds/LapisLazuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade walks into a supposedly empty room at St. Bart's Hospital and sees something he did not expect.  Even more surprising is his own reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray, I finally have an AO3 account! This story is also posted at FF.net, in case it looks familiar.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They are the property of, first, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and second, the BBC. I do not profit from these stories; I just write them because they turn me on. Also, I will continue to not own the characters in subsequent chapters, so assume that this disclaimer continues to apply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning to readers: although the majority of this story (literally 95% by word count) is about the evolution of a sexual and emotional relationship between John, Sherlock, and Lestrade, this story does not end with a three-way polyamorous relationship between these characters.

Lestrade is walking down a corridor in the basement of St. Bart's in the middle of the night, on his way back to his office to complete some paperwork before finally going home after a very long day. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead glare down on him, stinging his eyes and painting bright stripes along the reflective linoleum floor. He is in the middle of dealing with a very challenging triple homicide, and he is exhausted. It does not help that he has had to ask Sherlock Holmes for help, yet again, and he has just gotten done dealing with Sherlock while examining a victim in the Bart's morgue. Sherlock swept in, full of arrogance and insults as usual, and blew all of Lestrade's nicely constructed theories out of the water in three minutes of observations. He and John then bickered for a few minutes before Sherlock swept out, leaving John behind to shrug sheepishly and mutter a half-hearted apology before rushing from the room to catch up with Sherlock.

Lestrade chuckles softly to himself as he thinks about the cocky detective and his loyal sidekick. He is annoyed with Sherlock's arrogance and frustrated to be proven so wrong, but he knows that he is lucky to have access to the detective's amazing skills and somewhere deep inside he is grateful for the help. He is also grateful for the presence of John Watson, who has had a stabilizing effect on Sherlock, whether he knows it or not. The way that they talk to each other, Lestrade has never seen anyone interact with Sherlock like that, so comfortable and easy and friendly. Relatively speaking, of course, as he does not believe that Sherlock can ever truly be easy with anyone. But nevertheless, it makes him happy to see it.

As he walks down the hall, lost in thoughts of this case, general musings about Sherlock and John, anticipation of the pleasure of going home and finally going to bed, Lestrade hears a loud, hollow bang come from behind a closed door just ahead of him. He stops, confused. He is sure that he is the only one on the floor at this time of night. Sherlock, John, and even Molly left ahead of him, as he stayed behind to make some notes about Sherlock's deductions while they were still fresh in his mind. As he stands there, he hears another bang, and a fainter noise that may have been a pained whimper. Still more confused than worried, Lestrade decides to investigate the sounds.

Lestrade opens the door, taking care to remain silent, listening for further sounds. He leaves the door slightly ajar behind him as he steps through. The door opens into a short narrow hallway that extends a few feet before widening to the right into a large room, possibly a classroom? A light is on somewhere in the room, out of sight, the soft incandescent glow a welcome contrast to the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights out in the corridor. It casts dim illumination down the short hall as Lestrade walks softly forward. He hears another muffled thump, along with a quiet grunting sound, and another quieter sound, faintly rhythmic, that he cannot place. Somewhat concerned, he steps around the corner, his eyes sweeping the room.

Shocked, he freezes where he is, standing just past the corner of the short hallway, barely into the room. The room contains several tables, the nearest of which is just in front of where he is standing. The soft light he noticed before is coming from a small lamp on a desk which is pushed up against one wall. Directly in front of him, the wall is lined with tall cupboards. And leaning up against these cupboards facing toward Lestrade is John, his head thrown back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, and hands splayed against the cupboard doors on either side of him. His trousers are open, pushed down his hips, and his hair is disheveled, sticking up in clumps and spikes. Kneeling in front of John is the familiar form of Sherlock, his back to Lestrade, deep blue silk shirt stretched taut across his form. His mop of dark curly hair is swaying gently as his head bobs up and down at John's waist. The room is filled with soft, wet, rhythmic sounds from Sherlock, and John's soft panting.

If Lestrade had thought about it before, had ever considered the details of a scenario such as this – and he hasn't, of course he hasn't – but if he had, he would have expected John to be the one on his knees. Sherlock is so domineering and aggressive in his interpersonal interactions that is makes sense to Lestrade that he would be the same in sexual matters. Especially with John, the faithful sidekick, always following along and doing Sherlock's bidding. But here he is, kneeling, while John pants above him. There is something about seeing Sherlock in this position that triggers something in the pit of Lestrade's stomach, a tight feeling that he cannot place. Lestrade feels the heat of embarrassment – just embarrassment, that's all it is – bring a blush to his face as he takes in the scene before him.

He needs to leave, he knows he needs to leave, just go and pretend this never happened, and he is starting to step backward into the protection of the little hallway when John opens his eyes.

Lestrade freezes again as their eyes meet. John tenses, closes his mouth and lowers his chin to look directly at Lestrade, eyes open wide in surprise. At his waist, Sherlock's head is still moving slowly forward and back, hands clenched on John's thighs. Lestrade looks back at John, eyes wide, his blush intensifying, and shakes his head softly, just the barest motion side to side, trying to apologize without making a sound. His breath is coming faster now, his chest rising and falling visibly. He needs to go, right now, and again he tries to step back, out of sight of the two men and this personal act. He lifts one foot to step backward, but finds that he cannot complete the step. He lowers his foot, and succeeds only in rocking back and forth in place, still facing the two men, looking helplessly at John.

John's eyes narrow as he watches Lestrade's hesitation, takes in the blush and the rise and fall of Lestrade's chest. His mouth curls in a small smile, and he allows his head to fall back against the cupboards again, still looking directly at Lestrade through suddenly hooded eyes. His smile widens, and as Lestrade watches, John slowly licks his lips, first the top and then the bottom. Lestrade's mouth falls open and he feels his knees weaken, that tight feeling in his stomach intensifying. Somehow, the smile that John is wearing – small, quiet, unassuming John – that smile is the most lascivious thing Lestrade has ever seen. He feels himself starting to get hard, and he should be shocked at himself, shocked yet again, but somehow he is not. Still he does not leave, just stands in place, silently staring back at John.

They continue to lock eyes as Sherlock slides his mouth up and down along John's cock, the slow, changing rhythm in the movements and angle of his head suggesting to Lestrade that he has some skill at this. John opens his mouth again, panting louder now, his eyes fluttering closed briefly and then opening, always looking back at Lestrade, smile still in place. Time stretches out, fifteen seconds, thirty, as they continue to look at each other. And Lestrade knows that he should still leave, should have left some time ago, that his staying here and watching this is crossing some line that he did not even know existed until he entered this room. But he does not leave.

After some undefined interval, the wet rhythm of sucking sounds the only thing to mark the passage of time, John smiles wider, and Lestrade somehow knows that he has reached some kind of decision. Before he has a chance to wonder what it is, John lifts his left hand from where it is braced against the cupboards and threads his fingers through Sherlock's messy curls. Eyes on Lestrade's face, he works his fingers deep into Sherlock's hair, winding the curls around and between his fingers. Then, suddenly, he tightens his grip, clenching his fingers tight. Lestrade can see Sherlock's head jerk at the sudden force, but he continues to move up and down. A low baritone moan floats out into the room. Lestrade realizes suddenly that it is coming from Sherlock, that he is moaning as John pulls his hair while he sucks John's cock, and immediately Lestrade is flooded with intense arousal, the sensation slamming through him with such force that his knees buckle and he lurches forward, barely catching himself on the table in front of him. He manages to do so without making a sound, and stays in that position, braced on his hands leaning forward over the table, staring back at John. His cock is rock hard, straining against his trousers. He starts panting in earnest now, opening his mouth wider so that his breathing stays silent. He is sure, somehow, that if he makes a sound, this will stop. And all at once he very badly does not want this to stop.

John is still looking at Lestrade, maintaining eye contact, as he starts to use his grip in Sherlock's hair to pull his head more swiftly back and forth. Sherlock moans again, his neck flexing, allowing John to control his rhythm and speed. Lestrade watches, mouth open, as John roughly pulls Sherlock's hair, forcing the detective's head to move faster and faster on John's cock. The sound of his sucking gets faster and louder, less controlled. John glances down at Sherlock, and then looks back up, meeting Lestrade's gaze. John licks his lips once more, and then…

"Oh yes, Sherlock," John groans, eyes still locked on Lestrade. In response, Sherlock grunts out another deep moan. Lestrade feels hot sparks of pleasure shoot through his spine at the sounds, both at John's words and Sherlock's inarticulate, needy reply. His stomach pulls tight and he shivers, watching John's face. John continues to pull Sherlock's head forcefully up and down on his cock, fingers twined tightly in his hair, continues to hold Lestrade's gaze.

"Sherlock, yes, you feel so good. I love how your mouth feels on my cock." John's voice is lower, deeper than Lestrade has ever heard it. His eyes, staring straight into Lestrade's, are dark with desire. If Lestrade had ever thought about it before, ever considered how John and Sherlock would talk dirty – and he certainly hasn't, absolutely not – but if he had, he would have expected Sherlock to do the talking. Sherlock's deep voice seems made for talking dirty, for describing in detail each and every sexual act in a rumbling baritone. On the other hand, Lestrade supposes, it is possible that Sherlock would not be good at talking dirty. He briefly imagines Sherlock listing off the scientific names for body parts and describing the chemical reactions responsible for arousal using the same tone and pace he uses to explain his deductions, and feels a fleeting and extremely inappropriate urge to laugh, before John's voice recalls his attention to the scene unfolding in front of him and the sharp spikes of arousal coursing through his own body.

"Mmmm, yeah, like that. I love to fuck your mouth." Lestrade sags onto his hands, leaning his hips up against the table as his muscles go weak. Hearing John using such vulgar language while looking directly at his face causes another surge of arousal to stab through Lestrade, rippling up his spine and sending pulses of pleasure along the muscles of his shoulders and neck. Sherlock is moaning steadily as John talks, gripping John's thighs to brace himself as John continues to force his head forward and back.

"I love to see you on your knees in front of me, love to watch my cock sliding in and out of your gorgeous mouth." John's eyes flick briefly down to Sherlock as he says this, but almost immediately come back up to lock with Lestrade's. "It's like you were made for it, made to suck my cock." Sherlock grunts frantically in response to this, a clear affirmative.

John brings his right hand up and gently cups the side of Sherlock's face, his touch light and caressing. His left hand tightens still further in Sherlock's hair, and he pulls Sherlock's head back, away from his cock. From his vantage point, Lestrade can see nothing explicit, but he imagines that John has pulled Sherlock nearly off his cock entirely, possibly just the very tip still between his lips. John holds his head there, keeping Sherlock in place with a vicious yank to his hair, as Sherlock whimpers and writhes and struggles to get his mouth back around John's cock. Again John breaks his eye contact with Lestrade to look down at Sherlock, as Sherlock looks up at John. Lestrade finds himself picturing how Sherlock must look in this moment, lips swollen from the friction of his sucking, pleading expression in his eyes as he silently begs to be allowed to continue sucking cock. John smiles again as he looks down at Sherlock, this smile somehow more predatory and salacious even than the smile John gave him earlier.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asks in a low, dangerous voice. Lestrade leans forward, listening for an answer, but does not hear one. John leans his head back, smile still in place, and immediately meets Lestrade's eyes once again. He waits silently, keeping his brutal grip in Sherlock's hair. In front of him, Sherlock is struggling to lean forward, his hands clenched tightly on John's thighs, moans and whimpers continuing to pour from his throat. John just waits, still silent, tugging fiercely on Sherlock's hair when his struggles get too boisterous.

Eventually, Sherlock stops struggling and falls still, whimpering quietly. John softly caresses his face with the hand that is not twisted in Sherlock's hair. Eyes still locked with Lestrade's, John says "Sherlock, shhhhh." His voice is still low, but softer somehow, almost tender. "Tell me what you want, Sherlock. Tell me what you want ... and I'll give it to you." For some reason, Lestrade feels like this last statement was not directed solely at Sherlock, but he does not want to think about it now.

Sherlock freezes entirely and falls silent, still looking up at John. Lestrade leans forward and holds his breath, desperate to hear Sherlock's answer. For a long moment there is silence, and then Sherlock responds, his rich baritone voice somehow breathy and desperate.

"I want you, John. I want your cock, I want to feel you, feel you in my mouth, feel your cock sliding back and forth across my tongue and my lips. I want you to fuck my mouth, use me for your pleasure, come down my throat. _Please,_ John."

Lestrade cannot move, literally cannot move as he listens to this. Arousal, fierce hot raw desire, is pulsing through his body. His hips start rocking softly, thrusting his aching cock forward and back against nothing, and for a moment he thinks he might come in his pants without ever being touched. In front of him, John watches him for a moment, and then looks back down to Sherlock. He pulls both hands around to cup Sherlock's face tenderly, and then moves both of his hands into Sherlock's hair, gripping tightly on both sides of his head. He looks back to Lestrade once again, and without warning slams his hips forward, thrusting the entire length of his cock into Sherlock's panting mouth. Holding Sherlock's head stationary with the grip in his hair, John starts to fuck Sherlock's face in earnest, snapping his hips forward and back with brutal speed. Sherlock moans, shockingly loud, and his hands fall away from John's thighs, coming to rest limply on the floor on either side of his own spread thighs where he is kneeling back on his heels. He simply holds himself still and allows John to fuck his face, grunting and moaning out his pleasure.

John is grunting through his teeth as he continues to pump his hips forward and back, hands twisted in Sherlock's dark hair. His eyes keep fluttering closed, but each time he opens them again he is still looking at Lestrade. And Lestrade is looking back, staring at John's face, unconsciously rolling his hips in the same rhythm that John is using to fuck Sherlock's mouth. Lestrade is panting aloud now, simply cannot help it as waves of pleasure and arousal wash through his body, but the sound of his labored breathing is swallowed up by Sherlock's increasingly fevered moans and John's rhythmic grunts.

"So ... good ... Sherlock," John gasps out. He throws his head back, throat working as he swallows repeatedly, clearly trying to get control of himself. He brings his chin back down and looks into Lestrade's eyes, bites his lower lip. Lestrade mirrors the action, teeth sinking in nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain he feels just adds to his arousal, and he is not sure if he has ever been this hard.

"God, you look so good, feel so good. I just want to fuck your mouth all the time, forever. I want to tie you up, hands behind your back, naked and kneeling by my bed, and use you whenever I want. Just push my cock in your mouth and fuck your face any time, just take what I want, whenever I want, without even asking you. Would you like that, Sherlock? Would you like to be my fuck toy, my cock whore?" And Sherlock is groaning, nearly squealing, around the cock in his mouth as John talks, his back flexing beneath the tight blue silk as he rolls his hips. Lestrade pictures the scene as John speaks, thinks about himself using Sherlock in this way, or even being used himself, and feels arousal pooling low in his stomach, electric sparks of heat and pleasure crackling up and down his spine. He grits his teeth to stop himself from whimpering out loud, watches as John's eyes flutter closed again and then open, piercing gaze freezing him in place.

"Touch yourself."

For a moment, one crazy moment, Lestrade is sure that John is talking to him. He draws in a sharp, startled breath, pulling his head up to look John full in the face. His fingers clench against the edge of the table where he is leaning, and his hips still in anticipation. Then he sees Sherlock's hands coming up, moving around to his own groin, working frantically to open his trousers. Lestrade draws another deep breath, feeling both relieved and somehow disappointed when he realizes that of course, _of course_ John was talking to Sherlock. In the next second he forgets his disappointment, forgets himself entirely as he watches Sherlock, arm working feverishly as he rapidly strokes and pulls on his own cock while John holds his head in place and fucks his mouth. Sherlock's back is flexing and bending as he moves his hips in time with his hand, and Lestrade can see the shadow of his spine through the tight slick fabric of his shirt as he moves.

The room is filled with the sounds of grunting and moaning, obscene slurping and wet rhythmic slapping noises, harsh labored panting. Lestrade is gritting his teeth against the sensations coursing through his body as he watches the scene unfolding in front of him, and again he thinks he might come. John's eyes continue to bore into his even as John's breathing and thrusting start to get erratic as his climax approaches. Below him, Sherlock's arm is still moving frantically, his hips jerking and rolling faster and faster.

Suddenly John tightens his grip in Sherlock's hair and snaps his hips forward, freezing in place with his cock buried as deep as it can go in Sherlock's mouth. He remains motionless, pushing himself hard into Sherlock's throat. At his feet, Sherlock writhes and bucks, and the hand at his waist actually speeds up. Sherlock is making short, sharp, desperate little grunts as John's cock blocks his airway almost entirely. Lestrade feels the muscles of his back clench up as he watches, freezing in place as John does, his own cock twitching in his pants, staring as Sherlock comes completely undone.

"Take it, Sherlock, take my cock all the way down your throat. Can you feel it, pressing against your lips, your tongue, the roof of your mouth, your cheeks, your throat? I can feel every part of your mouth around me, feels so good. So good," John groans out, voice deep and guttural with arousal. Sherlock is grunting faintly around John's cock, head held stationary between John's hands as the rest of his body jerks and contorts at John's feet, hips snapping back and forth as he works his cock. Lestrade feels his arousal heighten even more as he watches Sherlock lose control, on his knees in front of John. And then, impossibly, John pushes his cock further into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's little grunts get fainter and higher as John pushes slowly forward into his throat until he falls completely silent, his airway entirely filled. Lestrade can see his throat convulsing around John's cock, stretching and hollowing out as his lungs strain to breathe. Sherlock's hips curl up and forward, rounding out his spine, and he stops moving. John flicks his eyes down to Sherlock's still form, and then back up to Lestrade's face.

"Come for me. Now."

And Sherlock does. His arm pumps up and down at his waist and his hips snap sharply backward and forward once, twice, three times as he comes silently, John's cock still buried in his throat. Lestrade sags forward against the table, silently mouthing the words "sweet Jesus" as he watches Sherlock coming at John's feet. Suddenly, John pulls his cock almost all the way out of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock immediately draws in one harsh, ragged, shrieking breath and surges his head forward, capturing John's cock once again, hips snapping back and forth erratically as he rides out the rest of his climax. And Lestrade cannot help it, simply cannot help himself. He brings one hand to the front of his trousers and presses on his aching cock, thrusting forward and rutting against his own hand. Two thrusts and he is coming too, working to keep silent as the waves of pleasure course through him, John's eyes still on his face. He is not able to keep entirely silent this time though, and a rough choking grunt escapes his mouth as he nearly collapses on the table top in front of him.

"Oh God, yes!" John nearly shouts, staring hungrily as Lestrade comes in his pants. John clenches his hands tighter in Sherlock's hair and pulls his head roughly back and forth, humping Sherlock's face and moaning loudly. Lestrade leans against the table, panting, riding out his own aftershocks, as John starts to come in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock moans loudly again, slurping and swallowing as John shoots down his throat. John slams his head back against the cupboard with a hollow bang, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth open and panting harshly, still thrusting into Sherlock's mouth as he comes.

And all at once, Lestrade thinks about where he is, what he is doing. He stands quickly, looking down at the floor, mortification flooding through him as quickly as arousal had done before, bringing a deep red blush to his face. His pants are sticking to him uncomfortably, and the cold wet feeling just adds to his embarrassment. Backing away quickly, he turns and flees the room without another glance at the now spent couple.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to my beta reader and British cultural consultant, Mei Hitokiri!

The drive home passes in a blur for Lestrade, who is working as hard as he can to keep his mind off of what he has just done. He will not think about it. Will not think about it. Will _not_ think about it. He chants this to himself as he steers his car on autopilot, easily following the familiar twists and turns between St. Bart’s and the dismal little flat he has been living in since his separation from his wife. The streets are nearly empty at this time of night, the darkness broken up by the yellowish glow of sodium lights, the occasional traffic signal, and the neon lights of the shops and bars. He does not see any of it as he passes, concentrating as hard as he is on filling his mind with repetitious words and keeping it free of disturbing images. He can still feel the heat in his face, his blush refusing to die down even now. Even now that he’s far from that room, those sounds, the sight and smell of… _No! Stop!_ He shakes himself mentally. He just needs to get home, take a shower, and have a nice, stiff drink.

Lestrade parks his car on a street around the corner from his building and fairly dashes to the door, as if he can leave the intruding thoughts trapped in the car behind him. He keys it open and quickly climbs the two flights of stairs to his flat, ignoring the chipped paint and stained walls that usually provoke feelings of anger and frustration. He enters the flat hastily, nearly slamming the door behind him, happier than he has ever been to be in the cramped space he now calls home.

He immediately runs the shower, stripping off his soiled clothes quickly – _don’t think about it don’t think about it_ – and shoving them to the bottom of the laundry hamper. He steps in to the spray of the shower with a grateful little sigh, turning the heat up until it is nearly painful where the water pounds against his exposed skin. He picks up the bar of soap and starts to rub it over his body, taking care to work up a good lather and scrub himself thoroughly. The heat of the water helps to leach some of the tension from his muscles, and as he relaxes into the feeling of being clean – his earlier near-panic abating – his mind goes blissfully blank, focusing on the sensation of the liquid coursing down his body. He rubs the soap lower on his torso until his hands reach his groin, then skips down to wash his legs, still careful to work up a rich lather. Finally, he is almost entirely clean.

Lestrade carefully brings his soapy hands to his groin and starts to massage the lather into the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Safely enclosed in this calm little space, surrounded by the moist heat of the shower, he suddenly realizes how tired he is, the exhaustion he was feeling earlier at Bart’s rushing back on him all at once. He rests his forehead against the cool tile wall and closes his eyes as he works the soap around his cock, taking a deep breath. His mind is wandering now in his exhaustion, slipping out of his control. His hand starts to slide slowly up and down his still flaccid cock, his touch soft and slick with soap, as he enjoys the feeling of warmth surrounding him. The image of a warm mouth surrounding his cock comes into his head as he strokes himself. He pictures lips moving up and down on his shaft, gripping him with soft heat, and in his hand his cock starts to respond, hardening as he continues to softly caress himself. He groans softly, imagining the mouth on his cock speeding up slightly, flashing quicksilver eyes looking up at him through a fringe of curly dark hair…

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he yells, his voice echoing harshly off of the tile walls, hand flying off his cock like he has been burned. He did not, was not just thinking of… _no, stop it stop it stop it!_ He quickly rinses himself clean of soap and jumps out of the shower, all feelings of relaxation shattered. He dries himself off rapidly and leaves the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, heading to the kitchen. There, he pours himself two fingers of mid-range scotch and knocks the entire glass back in one go. Another, and then one more, and he decides it is time for bed. He leaves the bottle and the glass out on the counter and strides into the bedroom, dropping his towel to the floor and pulling on shorts. He falls into bed, head swimming slightly from the liquor, and wills himself to fall asleep quickly. Fortunately the combination of exhaustion, stress, and booze is on his side this time, and he drifts off almost immediately.

The next morning Lestrade awakens groggily from a confused dream that he cannot remember, with a sour taste in the back of his mouth and a slight headache. Immediately, memories of the previous night fill his mind and he is instantly wide awake. He rolls out of the warmth of his blankets and sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low in front of his chest. His headache intensifies as he sits up and he feels nauseous, but he does not know whether it was the scotch on an empty stomach last night or the events that occurred earlier in the evening that is responsible for the feeling. He rubs his face hard with his hands and then scrapes his fingers through his hair, still slumped on the edge of his bed.

He has to think about it. He couldn’t last night; he absolutely could not face the situation, but in the cold grey light of morning he knows he has to come to some kind of conclusion or he will not be able to function. All at once he remembers that he has already invited Sherlock and John to assist with the current case – which means he will almost certainly have to see them today – and some of the panic he was feeling last night surges up in his chest. He groans and drops his face into his hands, making an effort to reign in his racing thoughts. He will face this and deal with it, damn it.

So, what exactly happened last night? He wandered into a room at Bart’s and found one of his… friends? colleagues? … whatever, giving the other a blow job. Might as well just come right out with it, he saw Sherlock sucking John off. Then he stayed to watch. _Shit._ Then John had seen him there, and more or less invited him to stay. And he had. _Shit!_ And then he had gotten extremely aroused watching John dominate Sherlock, while Sherlock essentially worshipped John’s cock, had watched John watching him through the whole thing, and then he had… had… brought himself off in his trousers in front of John, while watching Sherlock come with John’s cock down his throat. And right now, right now, he is starting to get hard again just thinking about it.

“Shit!” he yells, flopping back onto his bed and rubbing his eyes hard with the heels of his hands. He is ashamed of himself, ashamed of his reaction last night and his reaction this morning. He tries to explain it to himself, to figure out what exactly drew him to do what he did last night, why he is reacting this way now, but he cannot find a reason. Until the moment he saw it, he had not considered John or Sherlock in that light, had not even realized they were together in that way. His brain stutters a little over that, hazy half-remembered daydreams of warm tan skin against pale alabaster tickling his thoughts, but he ignores them. He was married to a woman for years – and here he takes a moment to indulge himself in feelings of bitterness for his ex-wife, rotten bitch that she is – and dated only women prior to his marriage. Since the divorce he has not dated at all, choosing to invest his time in work and spending time with his mates while he recovers emotionally from the crap his ex put him through, but if he had dated it would have been women. And although he will admit (at least to himself) that he has sometimes included men in his fantasies, it had never occurred to him that he would be aroused by the reality. Especially not to such an extent. If he is honest with himself – and at this point, why not be? – last night is the most aroused he’s been in a very long time. Since well before his divorce, in fact.

Maybe that’s the reason. Maybe it has just been too long. It’s not as if he and his wife were having sex by the end, and the sex had been mechanical and joyless for a while before that. Walking in on such an erotic scene, regardless of whom specifically was participating, it is only natural that his body would react the way it had. That does not explain why he stayed, why he did what he did, or why John did what he did, but it’s the best Lestrade can do right now and he needs to get ready for work. Feeling slightly better, he climbs off of his bed and moves to the bathroom to shower and get himself together. It’s not until he is getting dressed, just about to head in to the Yard, that he remembers he will have to face them today, look John and Sherlock in the eye and try to maintain some type of calm. He feels his face heat up just at the thought of seeing them, seeing John especially. He cannot imagine what John will say or do, although he trusts John not to bring it up in front of everybody. After all, he was a willing participant as well. Sherlock, on the other hand, might say or do anything in front of anybody at any time, but since no one knows about his relationship with John, Lestrade is willing to bet that he’ll keep silent in this case. But Lestrade is also sure that he will not be able to keep from reacting in some way when he comes face to face with the two men. Oh well, nothing for it. With a sigh, he gathers his wallet and keys and heads to work.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The day does not proceed at all the way Lestrade anticipates.

When he first arrives at the Yard it is blessedly free of consulting detectives and their doctors, and he is able to temporarily put the incident out of his mind and get to work. By midday he has managed to complete quite a bit of paperwork, and is feeling fairly good about his progress. He is just starting to wonder if he might not have to face them today after all when an angry squawk from Donovan alerts him that Sherlock has arrived. Lestrade pushes away the papers in front of him, takes a deep breath, and leans back in his seat just as Sherlock comes swooping into his office, trailed by John a moment after.

Sherlock is impeccably dressed in yet another silk shirt, forest green today, black trousers, and of course his bloody great coat. Lestrade catches himself thinking about how the green of the shirt draws out subtle hints of green from the alien unnamable color of Sherlock’s eyes, and mentally shakes himself. John is standing behind him, looking altogether more casual in his customary black shooting jacket and a pair of dark jeans. Lestrade braces himself, trying to keep the blush off his face through sheer force of will, and looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. And this is where his day starts to go entirely off the rails.

Because Sherlock just launches into a rant about the current case without hesitation, spouting off about types of dirt found in various parts of the city, the victims’ fingernail length, and local manicurists, peppered with occasional commentaries on his general opinion of the intelligence of everyone at the Yard (low) and his specific opinion of Anderson’s intelligence (extremely low). He starts pacing within the confines of Lestrade’s office, throwing his hands around in his typical dramatic gestures as his deductions pick up pace. In short, he is acting completely normal… for him. There is no indication – not even the slightest hint – that he is in any way uncomfortable, or that he expects Lestrade to feel in any way awkward. Lestrade supposes that this is not completely strange, since Sherlock’s grasp of social norms is shaky at best. It might not even occur to him to care about Lestrade’s presence the previous night; although, given the nature of his position at the time, Lestrade was expecting _something._ But who knows, with Sherlock? No, what is knocking Lestrade completely off of his internal equilibrium is John’s behavior. Because John is also acting totally normal. He offers Lestrade his usual reserved smile when the two men enter the office, stands back watching as Sherlock’s deductions flow, and utters his usual litany of “brilliant!”, “fantastic!”, “amazing!” as Sherlock reaches his conclusions. Lestrade keeps looking for some hint, some suggestion in John’s expression that he has any opinion at all about what happened last night, maybe a smirk or a smile or even some extended eye contact, but he sees nothing. Lestrade knows he is not Sherlock Homes, but he is a career policeman and a Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard for a reason, and he has some skill at reading people. If this were an interrogation, he would honestly believe that John had no knowledge of the situation at all, that he is entirely innocent.

Sherlock continues to pace and exclaim for several minutes, during which Lestrade keeps sneaking glances at John under the guise of watching Sherlock walk back and forth. He looks like himself, like the quiet sidekick to Sherlock’s larger-than-life comic book superhero. Absolutely nothing is different at all.

Suddenly, Sherlock exclaims “of course!” and dashes from the room. John shrugs sheepishly at Lestrade, exactly as he does every time this happens, and follows Sherlock out of the office. Lestrade jumps from his chair and follows them to the door, suddenly remembering that there is a case on.

“Oi! Where are you going?” he shouts at Sherlock’s back as the two men dash out of the building. He thinks he hears a faint call of “shampoo!” floating back to him, but they do not stop. He shrugs, ignoring the sour expression on Donovan’s face, and retreats back into his office. He sits, but does not resume his interrupted paperwork. Instead he rests his elbows on the desk and lets his head sink into his hands. What the hell just happened? He was ready to feel embarrassed, even humiliated, but he was not prepared to be ignored. He feels upset and confused now, and he does not know why. Eventually, he decides that he is not going to find any answers this way, and pulls his paperwork back in front of him.

Two confused, frustrated hours later he has not made much more progress on the paperwork. He had been doing a fairly good job keeping his mind away from the events of the previous night, but now he cannot stop dwelling on the complete lack of reaction from Sherlock and, even more so, John. He is replaying the conversation in his office once more in his head when his mobile beeps out a text alert. It’s from Sherlock, demanding that Lestrade meet him and John at the morgue. Lestrade texts back a quick affirmative, grabs his jacket, and heads out.

He arrives at St. Bart’s quickly, trotting down the stairs to the basement. He heads down the familiar hall that leads to the morgue, striding quickly, his footsteps quiet against the ugly linoleum floor. As he passes the door to the room where it happened he cannot help but slow down, his mind flashing back to last night. He remembers the sound of Sherlock’s moans muffled around John’s cock, the sight of Sherlock on his knees bucking wildly as he comes, John’s words and voice and dark eyes and the expression on his face as Lestrade comes. He immediately feels both aroused and ashamed, and yet again he blushes. His breath is coming faster, and he notices that he has stopped, is just standing in the hall staring at a closed door. He shoots an embarrassed glance around, but no one is there to see him acting strangely. He draws a deep breath and walks to the doors of the morgue.

Inside, Sherlock is bent over a metal table, examining one of the bodies from the triple homicide and muttering quietly to himself. John is perched on a stool a little way away, looking bored but attentive. As Lestrade enters, Sherlock looks up.

“Ah, Lestrade, excellent. As I was saying, if you look at the length of the victims’ fingernails…” he pauses, a puzzled expression falling over his face as he takes in Lestrade’s flush and elevated breathing. “Lestrade, your face is red and your respiration is noticeably accelerated. Why?”

For a moment Lestrade cannot answer, his humiliation is so great. Sherlock’s eyes search his face in typical deductive mode, and Lestrade is sure that he is getting redder as he stands there. He swallows hard and opens his mouth to respond, hoping his voice won’t crack.

“I was just… uh… rushing, wanted to get here fast,” he says, impressed with himself when he hears his voice come out sounding normal, if not resoundingly confident. As he talks he cannot stop himself from glancing quickly at John, who is looking back placidly, an expression of mild interest on his face. Sherlock stares at Lestrade for another few seconds, and Lestrade is certain Sherlock knows he is lying. But then he shakes his head slightly, clearly dismissing Lestrade’s flustered state as unimportant, and turns back to the corpse in front of him.

“Anyway, the type of dirt under the fingernails here does not match what we found on the other victims.” Sherlock continues to talk, bent over the corpse, but Lestrade is not listening. He approaches the table, looking where Sherlock is pointing and making appropriate sounds of affirmation, but his mind is concentrating on calming his breathing and willing away his blush. Sherlock moves around the table to look from another angle, and bends down with his head hovering a few inches above the corpse, directly in front of Lestrade’s face. Without even thinking about it, Lestrade draws a deep breath through his nose. He smells the bitter antiseptic smell of the morgue and, fainter, a light, vaguely floral scent that might be Sherlock’s shampoo. _What the hell are you doing?_ He immediately steps back a small way, blush intensifying yet again. Neither Sherlock nor John appears to notice, both focused on Sherlock’s continued deductions.

“But, there should be drag marks! Why aren’t there any drag marks?” Sherlock suddenly exclaims, again pulling Lestrade’s attention back to the fact that he should be trying to solve this case instead of dwelling on personal matters. He looks at John again, this time with a typical expression of Sherlock-induced exasperation, and John returns it, shaking his head.

“Out. Both of you, out, I need to concentrate.” Sherlock takes a seat on a nearby stool, brings his knees up almost to his chest and rests his feet on a crossbar. He presses the palms of his hands together, rests his elbows on his knees, presses his fingers against his lips, and falls still.

“Well, that’s it; he’s gone to the mind palace again. We might as well leave,” John states in a resigned tone, getting off his stool and heading toward the door. Lestrade just looks at Sherlock for a moment, captivated as he always is when he has an opportunity to see Sherlock sitting still and not talking, and then follows John into the corridor.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Lestrade’s anxiety surges back, and he cannot look at John’s face. He sees John lean casually against the wall of the corridor from the corner of his eye as he stands nervously, just past the morgue door.

“Bloody mind palace,” John mutters, but Lestrade can hear the fondness in his voice. “So anyway, did you catch the Chelsea match the other day?”

“Um… no, working late. Heard about it, though, sounded like a good one,” Lestrade manages to answer coherently, no small feat in his current state of mind. John still seems entirely normal – completely himself – and Lestrade is increasingly coming unwound. He knows he should be happy that apparently the incident is not going to be mentioned, but instead he feels like he is losing his mind. _Am I really the only one who thinks this is a big deal?_

John continues to chat about football, and initially Lestrade is able to respond almost normally, but inside his anxiety is ratcheting higher and higher. He manages to make fleeting eye contact with John as they talk, the other man still slouched comfortably against the wall, but he cannot hold it. John is so damned calm, so relaxed, and it is all Lestrade can do to formulate sentences. His responses to John’s attempts at conversation are getting shorter and shorter. The next time he glances up, John is wearing an apparently genuine expression of mild puzzlement that Lestrade knows is in response to his reticence, and he snaps. _That’s it, fuck it, I’m saying something._

“Don’t you… I’m just…” he blinks. John’s puzzled expression has not changed at all and he appears to be waiting attentively for whatever Lestrade is going to say. _Shit, I can’t do it._ “I’m going upstairs for some coffee,” he finishes, and flees the corridor, leaving a baffled-looking John behind him.

Upstairs, drinking lousy coffee out of a disposable cup, Lestrade curses himself for his cowardice, but he knows he is not going back down there. He cannot face John. This lack of reaction is worse, somehow, than anything he was expecting. Just thinking about it makes him feel upset and a little angry, and it pisses him off further that he cannot understand why. He sighs and sips his coffee.

He has finished about a third of the cup of terrible coffee when his phone beeps. This time it is a text from John.

_High end salon, High Holborn, manicurist. On our way._

“Crap!” Lestrade yells, startling a few people walking past him. He dashes out of the building, tossing his half-full cup of coffee in the general direction of a bin as he runs past, dialing Donovan. He is lucky John thought to alert him, and he has no doubt that going after the killer himself was entirely Sherlock’s idea, damn the arrogant sod! Donovan answers, and he relays the information to her as he jumps into his car and heads toward High Holborn. He briefly hopes there are not too many high end beauty salons on that street as he peels out of the hospital car park.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Lestrade is sitting at his desk later that day, facing a whole new stack of paperwork. They had caught the killer, in the end, but only after chasing the woman through the crowded streets of London in the middle of the day, watching John nearly fall off a building, and saving Sherlock’s silly arse from a knife attack. And although Lestrade was, thankfully, able to put his dilemma out of his mind for the duration of the arrest, it had come roaring back as soon as the adrenaline rush wore off. He managed to present Sherlock and John with his usual lecture about sharing deductions but staying out of arrests, but he knew that he was not speaking with the same force he usually did. As always, this speech was received with indifference by Sherlock and half-hearted apologies by John. But once this ritual was complete, Lestrade suddenly felt completely adrift. At his own arrest. It was unacceptable. He was even too flustered to take Sherlock’s statement or demand an explanation for how exactly he had discovered the killer’s identity. Lestrade had finally handed everything over to Donovan, much to Sherlock’s obvious disgust and Donovan’s equally obvious confusion, and headed back to the Yard.

Alone in his office, Lestrade leans back in his chair, letting his head fall back and his arms hang limp at his sides. He should really get started on all the paperwork necessary for this latest arrest, but he cannot think of anything he would rather do less right now. What he really wants to do is go home and rest, and maybe think about what has been happening today with Sherlock and John, or maybe get drunk alone and not think about it. He hasn’t decided which.

“Hey,” Donovan says, poking her head through the office door. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade answers wearily, rubbing a hand across his face. Donovan grins.

“Well, there’s a match on tonight, Fullham’s playing. A few of us are planning to head out to the pub to watch. Want to come?”

Lestrade considers. This might be exactly what he needs to make him feel normal again. A night out with the lads; football and beer and bullshitting. Yes, it sounds just right.

“That sounds good. I’ll see you there after I get a bit of this done,” he gestures to the stack of papers on his desk, and Donovan leaves with a smile and a nod. Lestrade leans forward again and starts on the paperwork.

An hour later, Lestrade walks into the pub where the Yarders like to spend their spare time. It is dimly lit and already loud and crowded, but the heavy wooden furniture and deep red walls lend the atmosphere a cozy, comfortable feeling. The football match is already in progress, visible on several huge televisions around the room. Lestrade can feel his tension beginning to ease as soon as he walks through the door.

He heads up toward the back of the room, winding and pushing through the press of people to reach the bar. Around him, people are yelling at the match, talking and laughing. He finally reaches the bar and leans against it, waiting for a bartender’s attention. As he waits he looks over the crowd, searching for familiar faces, and sees Donovan, Anderson, and a few other Yarders seated at a round table to one side of the room, not too far from the door. He turns back to see a heavyset bartender opposite him, and leans in to order a beer. He has to yell to be heard over the general chaos of the crowded pub, but the bartender gets his order and pulls his beer. Having paid, Lestrade nods his thanks and grabs the drink, carrying it back over to the table. He takes a seat to the left of a man he recognizes from the Yard but does not know well. He thinks his name is Williams. Donovan is seated on Lestrade’s left, Anderson next to her.

The group at the table talk and joke, and Lestrade feels himself relaxing further into the easy camaraderie. Donovan and even Anderson are fairly good company when they are getting along and Sherlock is not in the room to irritate them. Lestrade keeps one eye on the football match as he chats with (probably) Williams, sipping his beer. He has finished about half of it when he hears Donovan exclaim from the chair on his other side.

“Oh, there he is. I wasn’t sure if he was going to come. It’ll do him good to get away from the freak for a bit. Maybe there’s still hope for him yet.”

Breaking off his conversation mid-sentence, Lestrade whirls around to face the door, and of course, there stands John. His black jacket is unzipped now, revealing a checked button-down shirt that looks striking with his dark jeans. He has paused just inside the pub, his eyes sweeping the room as he looks for their group. Lestrade feels the bottom drop out of his stomach at the sight of him.

John sees their table, gives a little wave, and heads toward the bar at the back of the room. Beside him, Lestrade hears Donovan continue her conversation about football. He buries his face in his beer, ignoring Williams’ attempt to continue their chat, the voices around him running together into a dim roar as he is suddenly and intensely focused on regulating his breathing and mind. _Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm._ Unthinkingly, he looks toward the bar, his eyes searching out John’s small form. Despite the thickness of the shifting, rowdy football crowd, he can see directly to where John is standing, leaning casually against the bar and looking back at him. As soon as their eyes meet, John lifts his chin and curls his lips into an extremely suggestive smile. And then, as Lestrade’s breath stops completely in his chest and his heart starts beating twice as fast, John slowly licks his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Extremely conscious of Williams’ eyes on him, Lestrade resists the urge to whirl away from John.  Instead he slowly turns his head back to Williams and clears his throat.  He can feel his heart pounding as recollections from the previous night fill his mind again, arousal and anxiety flooding his body.  That _fucking_ smile.

Beside him, Williams turns to look at John.  Lestrade keeps his eyes down, dreading what he might see if he looks at John again.  Williams leans toward Lestrade, nearly yelling to be heard over the steadily increasing noise of the pub crowd.  “Who’s that bloke?  I don’t think I know him.  One of your lot?”

“His name is John Watson.  He’s friends with Sherlock Holmes,” he responds.  Even though Williams has never worked with Sherlock, Lestrade is certain that he has heard of him.  News like Sherlock gets around.

“Oh, right, the guy who consults on some of your cases, right?  I heard he’s a bit of a nutter.”

Lestrade snorts.  “You have no idea,” he mutters, aware that Williams cannot hear his quiet response.  Louder, he says, “Just don’t mention his name to Donovan.  It won’t end well.”  Williams grins and raises his glass slightly to Lestrade before taking a drink.

Beside him, a glass clunks onto the table top.  Lestrade does not have to turn to know that John is pulling a chair up to the table, squeezing in between him and Donovan.  For a brief moment he considers just ignoring John all night, but he knows it would look strange to the rest of his team; he and John have always been on friendly terms.  He draws a deep breath, steeling himself, and then turns to offer John a greeting, only to be faced with the back of John’s head.  John is talking to Donovan, turned in his chair so that his back is facing toward Lestrade.  Lestrade cannot hear their conversation over the general chaos in the pub, but he sees Donovan laughing at something John has said.  Lestrade feels unaccountably irritated by this, by John’s apparent disregard, and he turns back to the table, taking a long pull from his beer.

Lestrade looks up toward the telly, pretending to watch the match to cover his frustration.  Just as he brings his glass back up to his mouth for another swallow of beer, he feels John’s thigh press against his under the table.  He jumps, slopping his beer, and jerks his head around.  John is leaning in toward him, his face only inches away, wearing an amused expression.  Under the table, he rubs his thigh back and forth against Lestrade’s.

“Hey Greg,” John says, his voice low and deep, barely audible in the din of the bar.  He leans in a little closer, talking almost in Lestrade’s ear.  “Jumpy tonight, yeah?”  His breath tickles Lestrade’s neck, making him shiver.

“What? No!” Lestrade jerks his head back, away from John.  He knows he is overreacting but he cannot stop himself.  John smirks at him, clearly amused by his discomfort.

John picks up his beer and uses it to gesture toward the television.  “So, how’s the match then?” he asks in a louder voice, before taking a drink.  Under the table, he pulls his leg back, breaking contact.

Lestrade just gapes at him, momentarily confused by the sudden change of subject.  Unconsciously, he moves his knee toward John, seeking more contact.  He realizes what he is doing and snaps his leg back, embarrassed.

“Uh… it’s, um… good,” he manages to choke out after a moment.  _God, why can’t I pull it together?_ John smirks again at his response.

“Yeah?  Are you enjoying it?  Has it been… exciting?” John’s voice has dropped again, and Lestrade finds himself leaning in toward him in order to hear.  He is thinking about the sensation of John’s warm breath on his neck, enjoying it despite himself, and it takes his mind a moment to catch up with what John has said.  _Exciting_?  He turns to look at John, their faces about ten centimeters apart.  _Is he still talking about football_?  For a moment he allows his eyes to roam across John’s face, looking for a clue.  All he sees is John’s typical affable expression.

Lestrade leans back in his chair, glancing briefly at the telly before turning back to John.  “It has been exciting, yeah,” he answers, smiling just a bit.  “Good match so far.”  He feels like he is answering a completely different question, and a little tingle of excitement runs down his spine.  _What the hell am I doing?_ The sensation intensifies as John’s smile deepens.  They maintain eye contact for a few seconds, and Lestrade is reminded forcibly of the way John had stared into his eyes last night, pinning him in place while Sherlock sucked John’s cock.  This thought shocks him and he quickly turns away, looking at the table.  Beside him, John laughs and takes another drink of his beer.

Suddenly, Williams leans across him, holding out a hand to John.  Lestrade jumps.  He has forgotten that they are surrounded by people, people who might be watching as he and John have these loaded exchanges.  He quickly cuts his eyes to Donovan and Anderson, but they do not seem to be paying him any attention.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Ted Williams,” Williams shouts practically in Lestrade’s ear as he leans in front of him, extending a hand to John.  Lestrade jerks away from the yell and his face collides with John’s shoulder as he leans over to shake the proffered hand.

“John Watson, pleasure,” John answers Williams before turning to Lestrade.  “Careful there, mate,” he says, bringing his hand up to rest on Lestrade’s shoulder.  His fingers curl around the back of Lestrade’s neck, just above his shirt collar, and as he withdraws his hand his blunt nails scrape softly along the juncture of Lestrade’s neck and shoulder.  Lestrade feels a thrill of pleasure shiver along his back and he flushes red, leaning further back in his chair.

“No problem,” he mumbles, too quietly for John to hear him.  John does not look in his direction, continuing to lean forward to talk to Williams.  The two strike up a conversation about football, yelling across the short distance between them.  Lestrade sits back, takes a long slow breath, and swallows the rest of his beer.  He ponders his empty glass for a moment before sliding his chair further back from the table and standing up.

“Going to get another,” he says when Williams and John turn to look at him, pointing to his empty glass in case they cannot hear him.  He turns quickly, avoiding John’s eyes, and pushes his way up to the bar.  It takes a little longer to get the bartender’s attention this time, as the pub is completely packed.  Lestrade does not mind the wait, and is in fact grateful for the break.  He brings his hand to his neck, tracing his fingers over the path that John’s nails had taken earlier, and represses a shiver.  He shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to corral his thoughts.  John’s behavior tonight is in stark contrast to his behavior earlier today, and Lestrade is finding himself knocked completely off balance yet again.

 “Another pint?”  Lestrade opens his eyes to see the heavyset bartender in front of him.

“Yeah.  And a scotch, neat,” he answers, leaning forward over the bar.  The bartender nods and gets the drinks, delivering them to Lestrade without expression.  He stays at the bar, drinking his scotch and trying to ignore the jostling from the crowd around him.  He wants to take a moment to make sense of what is happening, but his mind keeps stuttering back to the sensation of John’s breath in his ear, John’s nails on his neck, John’s eyes and voice.  _Am I enjoying this?  Should I be?_

He finishes the scotch quickly and picks up his beer.  He turns to head back to the table, finding himself both excited and anxious to see what John will do next, and immediately crashes into someone standing just behind him.  He jumps away, beer sloshing around, feeling his back collide with the edge of the bar, and looks down.  His apology dies on his lips as he recognizes John, who grins up at him and steps forward.

John presses himself against Lestrade with firm pressure and he gasps, feeling little sparks of electricity tingle across his skin as John’s body slides along his.  Arousal, hot and sudden, jolts through him, and he unconsciously leans into the other man, increasing the pressure and contact between them.  John continues moving, body slowly rubbing along Lestrade’s, touching from chest to thigh, eyes never leaving his face.  Just for the briefest moment his hip scrapes roughly across Lestrade’s groin, and he cannot help but thrust against the sensation, his cock hardening immediately.  And then the contact is broken as John steps around him and leans up against the bar.  Lestrade sags slightly at the loss of contact, heart hammering in his chest.

“Just came for another drink.  Crowded in here tonight, isn’t it?” John says casually, still looking at Lestrade with a knowing smile on his face.  Lestrade exhales hard, looking back at John with a dazed expression.

“Fuck.”  It’s all he can think to say.  John smirks.

Lestrade breaks eye contact, turning his head away from John and closing his eyes.  He takes another deep breath.  Then he walks away without another glance.

Back at the Yarders’ table, Lestrade carelessly sets his beer down with a clunk without sitting, ignoring the liquid that slops over the side of the glass and the questioning look on Donovan’s face.  He leans over Williams, who is chatting with another Yarder that Lestrade only barely knows.

“Can I get a smoke?” he asks, interrupting the conversation.  Williams turns, blinking at him for a moment before shrugging and pulling a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket.  Lestrade takes it with curt thanks and marches toward the front door of the pub.

Outside, he walks a short way down the front of the building, away from the lights around the entrance, seeking out a dim patch of shadowed wall.  The calm and quiet outside is almost deafening after adjusting to the noise and chaos of the pub on a match night.  It is cool but not too cold tonight, and Lestrade finds the chill soothing on his flushed skin.  He flicks the lighter that he always carries – he learned when he was smoking that having a lighter on hand is useful for many things – lights his cigarette, and takes a deep pull.  This is his first cigarette in months, and he coughs on the harsh smoke, savoring the burn in his lungs.  He leans his head back, looking at the black night sky visible between the buildings lining the street, and continues to smoke; exhaling upward and watching the smoke dissipate into the night air, waiting.

He is completely unsurprised when John walks out of the building a few minutes later.

John looks around briefly, his eyes picking Lestrade out of the shadows with no trouble.  Lestrade watches him approach with a feeling of inevitability, anxiety and anticipation curling through his body.  John’s walk, his posture, his attitude have all changed as he saunters toward where Lestrade is waiting.  He is almost prowling, and his expression is positively predatory.  Lestrade had never thought about John in a sexual way prior to last night – absolutely not – but if he had, he would have expected John to be kind, caring, thoughtful, and tender; the type of lover women like his ex-wife always claim to prefer (although Lestrade’s experience causes him to doubt this claim).  He would never have expected the man he glimpsed last night, the man he has met tonight in the bar.  This John is calm and unflinching, practically oozing power and authority out of every pore.  This John is swagger and smoldering heat, teasing without mercy and controlling every interaction effortlessly.  This John is temptation and dominance and – let’s face it – sexy as hell.

As John slowly approaches, wolfish smile on his face, Lestrade turns his head back up toward the night sky and takes another drag on his cigarette, the cherry flaring brightly orange for a moment.  John comes to a stop directly in front him, slightly too close, smile softening slightly.

“I thought you quit,” John says, his voice soft, indicating the cigarette with his eyes.

“I did,” Lestrade answers, exhaling smoke through his nose.  He pitches the spent cigarette butt into the street.  “But for some reason, I felt like having one.  Been a bit of a stressful night, yeah?”  He offers John a hesitant smile and quirks his eyebrow.  This is the closest he’s come to bringing it up, whatever _it_ is that they have been doing today, and he feels his stomach tighten with nerves and excitement as he waits for John to respond.

“Right, sorry about earlier,” John says calmly.  “You know how Sherlock is when he has an idea.  Nothing for it but to go chasing off after a murderer.  I did text you, though.”  Lestrade gapes at him incredulously for a moment, before anger surges up in his chest, hot and sharp.

“Enough!” he snaps, leaning forward toward John.  “That’s not what I meant, and you bloody well know it!”   His raised voice sounds harsh in the stillness of the street at night.

John’s grin returns suddenly and he steps forward again until he is just in front of Lestrade, who leans back against the bricks behind him.  John cocks his head to the side just slightly, his deep blue eyes suddenly dark and hooded.  “Of course I know,” he practically purrs, his voice deep and low and quiet, looking into Lestrade’s eyes.

Lestrade feels his anger morph instantly into arousal, still hot and sharp in his chest.  The skin on his neck tingles as John’s breath ghosts softly across the short distance separating them.  He looks back into John’s eyes, frozen in place, and then unconsciously lowers his gaze to John’s mouth.  As soon as he does, he sees John’s teeth sink into his lower lip.  Lestrade finds himself drawing his own lower lip between his teeth in response, but he stops himself before he bites down.  He hears John inhale sharply through his nose, and his eyes rise to meet the shorter man’s again.

“This brings back memories.  You have beautiful eyes.”  John is smiling up at him, his voice still low and soft.

“Jesus, John, what the hell is going on?  What are you doing?”  Lestrade hates how he sounds, shaky and weak, but he cannot help it.

John’s expression does not change.  “What do you mean, Greg?”

“Don’t do that.  You know what I mean.”

John ponders Lestrade for a moment, the seductive expression on his face joined by amusement.

“Why did you stay?”

Lestrade blinks.  “I don’t know.”

“You could have left any time,” John continues.  “But you didn’t.  You stayed, and you watched.  You did a bit more than watch, actually.”  He smirks.  Lestrade feels himself flushing at John’s words as embarrassment rises to the top of the confused snarl of emotions filling his mind.  He slumps further against the wall behind him.

“I just… I really don’t know,” he answers softly.  “Why did you let me stay?”

John leans in closer, his mouth scant centimeters from Lestrade’s ear.

 “Because I liked it.”  Lestrade’s entire body breaks out in goose bumps at John’s words, his voice, and the slide of his hot breath across Lestrade’s neck.  His eyes flutter closed.

“Oh,” he breaths out.

There is a short period of silence – Lestrade is not sure how long – as both men stay where they are.  Cars rumble past on the street beside them and the muffled sound of the crowd in the pub floats out to where they are standing, one unintelligible voice occasionally rising above the rest, but in their little patch of shadows there is stillness.  Then John takes a step back, and the moment is over.

“Sherlock didn’t know it was you,” John says.

“What?” Lestrade opens his eyes and looks at John, surprised by both the direction of the conversation and the idea that there is anything Sherlock does not know.

“He figured it out today, I’m sure, when you walked into the morgue looking like someone had set your trousers on fire, but until then he didn’t know.”

Lestrade’s embarrassment surges forward again at the memory.  He winces.

“He _deduced_ that someone was… you know, watching, part way through, but he didn’t know who it was,” John continues, putting obviously sarcastic emphasis on the word “deduced”.

“Wait, what?” Lestrade is shocked at this.  “He figured out that _that_ was being watched by a random stranger, and he just kept going?  And you didn’t tell him it was me?”

“Well, you were there,” John answers calmly, still looking amused.  “When would I have mentioned it?”

“God, I don’t know.  At least afterwards.  I can’t believe he didn’t stop, look around or something.”

“Sherlock trusts me,” John says, smiling.  “He knows I would have stopped him if something was wrong.  And I’m not the only one who was enjoying it.”  Lestrade shivers again.

“Why didn’t you tell him it was me… you know, later?”

“Do you know when Sherlock realized someone was there?” John asks, ignoring Lestrade’s question.

“Umm, no.  Honestly, until just now I assumed he knew the whole time.  Just because he’s Sherlock.”

“Well,” John smirks, “he was a little distracted right then, wasn’t he?  No, he figured it out because he could tell that I was looking at someone.  And he only noticed right before…” John’s voice drops again to that deep, smooth register that goes straight to Lestrade’s cock, “…right before he begged me to fuck his face.”

“Jesus.” Lestrade’s eyes fall closed, John’s words sending a sharp pulse of want through him.  Then he thinks about the meaning of what John has said, and they fly open again, seeking out John’s face.  “Wait… Sherlock… he figured out someone was listening and he… he said…” he trails off, unable to find the words in his shock.

“You know what Donovan told me the first time I met her?  At that first crime scene, the fake suicide?” John asks suddenly.  Lestrade is taken aback by the apparent change of subject, and has to work to bring his mind around to the topic.  “She told me to stay away from Sherlock, that he comes to crime scenes because he gets off on it.  And at first, I thought she was probably right about that.”

John steps forward slightly, just too close to be comfortable, and continues.  “But he doesn’t, not really.  He needs the cases, the puzzles, like you and I need air to breathe.  He’d tear himself apart without them.  But Donovan was wrong; he doesn’t get off on them.”

John steps forward again, leaning in until his entire body is hovering just above Lestrade’s but not touching, his hands pressing against the wall on either side of Lestrade’s head.  Maybe two centimeters of space are separating them.  Lestrade shuts his eyes and imagines he can feel electric sparks jumping between them as arousal washes through him.  He has to stop himself from arching up into John’s body.  John’s mouth is just below his ear, breath pulsing hot and wet on his neck.

“No, what Sherlock gets off on,” John’s voice has dropped to a sibilant whisper, sliding along Lestrade’s skin and making him shiver, “really gets off on… is _surrender_.”

Lestrade’s breath escapes him with a whimper as images tumble through his mind, of Sherlock bowed at John’s feet; Sherlock on his knees, begging; Sherlock with John’s cock between his lips.

“And that works out well for me,” John continues relentlessly, “because I get off on _control_.”

“God,” Lestrade gasps out.  The images flickering behind his closed eyes shift suddenly to John, looking down on Sherlock, pulling his hair, thrusting into his mouth.  A tremor passes through Lestrade’s body and his knees go weak.  He is grateful for the rough brick wall behind him, holding him up.

John brings one finger up to touch the underside of Lestrade’s jaw with gentle pressure, and he goes rigid at the contact.  John uses his finger to gently pull Lestrade’s head slightly forward from where it rests against the wall, and brings his lips closer until they are just barely grazing the sensitive skin below Lestrade’s ear.

“So what about you, Greg?” he murmurs, lips fluttering against Lestrade’s neck.  “What do you get off on?”  The touch of his lips, the heat of his breath is sending sharp shivers through the muscles of Lestrade’s neck and back, coursing with the thrill of anticipation and want.  His stomach pulls tight with the effort of holding himself still, and he cannot help but twitch under the onslaught of sensation, erection throbbing.

John waits, but Lestrade cannot answer, absolutely cannot speak, caught in the grip of almost overwhelming arousal.  Instead, a quiet groan escapes his mouth.

“That’s alright, I already know the answer,” John says, still allowing his lips to brush against Lestrade’s skin as he speaks.  Lestrade can hear the smile in his voice.  “I was just wondering if you did.”  He pauses, moving his head back slightly to see Lestrade’s face.  “God, just look at you.”  And then he licks a stripe from Lestrade’s collar to his ear and steps back quickly, finger dropping away from Lestrade’s jaw.

Lestrade allows his head to fall back against the wall, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut.  He shivers harder as the cool night air flows across the wet strip on his neck, sending a chill down his spine.  He realizes he is panting aloud, but he cannot stop.

“I really enjoyed myself yesterday.  So did Sherlock,” John says in an almost conversational tone of voice, as if he is commenting on a pleasant outing.  “And I know you did, too.  I want to do it again.”

“God, John, I don’t know…” Lestrade manages to choke out once his mind finally grasps what is being suggested, being offered.  He is still painfully aroused, and he knows that he would give in if John wanted to continue what he is doing right now, but this is something else.  It was an accident, last night; a surprise, and he knows that even now, even after all of this, he could choose to walk away.  Things would be weird for a while with John and Sherlock, but he could put it out of his mind and keep working with them.  Eventually, things would get back to normal, and this would become just another strange adventure in his past.  If he walks away now, John will let him go.

But if he accepts this offer, allows desire to guide him and goes through with whatever John is suggesting, things will be different.  He is not sure how, exactly, but he knows without a doubt that they will change.  The relationship he has with John and Sherlock will be irreparably altered.  He hesitates to risk his friendship with John, and even more so, his working relationship with Sherlock, for the sake of a shag.

On top of this, there is his confusion about his own reaction to the sight of one man giving another a blow job.  He was undeniably aroused, and his reaction to John tonight has certainly been intense, but he has never had such a reaction before.  He is sure that he is not gay, as he is still very attracted to women, but it seems that he is not entirely straight either.  And he is not at all sure that he is prepared to embrace this new aspect of himself.

John stands quietly, watching these thoughts flicker across Lestrade’s face.  Just as Lestrade looks at John and opens his mouth, still not sure what he is going to say, John steps forward once more and grabs his right hand.

“I can see that you aren’t sure, so I want you to try something for me,” John says.  He brings Lestrade’s hand up to his mouth and places the tip of Lestrade’s middle finger against his lips.  Then he purses his lips and suckles gently on just the very tip of the finger against his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, looking into Lestrade’s eyes.  Lestrade looks back, gasping as little jolts of pleasure travel from his finger directly to his straining cock at the sensation.  John grins around his finger, and then draws it away from his mouth.  He moves his grip to Lestrade’s wrist, and then presses the other man’s hand hard against the bulge in Lestrade’s own trousers.

Lestrade grunts in surprise and unexpected pleasure, and bucks into his own hand once.  John holds his hand firmly against his straining erection and leans forward, pressing his body against Lestrade’s, pinning Lestrade to the wall with his chest and bringing his lips against Lestrade’s ear.

“I want you to go home tonight and think about what you want.  Think about what you saw, think about Sherlock on his knees, think about my tongue on your neck.  Think about what we could do, together.  And then I want you to touch yourself,” and here he grinds Lestrade’s hand hard against his erection, “while you imagine it.”

Suddenly, John steps back, releasing Lestrade’s hand.  “And then, if you decide that you want to take us up on the offer, just let me know.”  He smiles then, his typical friendly John-smile.  “And now, I’m going to go back inside.  They’re probably wondering what happened to us.”  And John turns away, walking back to the entrance to the pub and heading inside without looking back.

Lestrade sags back against the wall.  He is panting, his cock throbbing, his head spinning.  He rests there as he fights to get control of himself.  There is no way that he is going back into the pub tonight.  He could not act normal if his life depended on it right now.  Instead, once he is sure that he is able to stand, he steps out of the shadows and hails a cab to take him home.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

At home, Lestrade cannot stop thinking about what John said.  He tries to distract himself with the telly, but he quickly loses track of the plot of the science fiction show he has settled on.  His mind keeps wandering back to John’s words.

_‘Think about what you want.  Think about what you saw…’_

His erection, still straining against the fabric of his trousers, is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, and he has lost hope that it will go away on its own as John’s voice echoes through his mind.

_‘…think about Sherlock on his knees, think about my tongue on your neck.’_

He groans, leaning over on the couch where he is sitting and pressing his face into a pillow.  In his head, images continue to flash past out of his control.

_‘Think about what we could do, together.’_

“God,” he gasps into the pillow as he involuntarily starts to imagine scenes with him and Sherlock, him and John, all three of them together.

_‘I want you to touch yourself while you imagine it.’_

Lestrade feels his cock throb as John’s instructions float through his mind.  He sits up abruptly.  “Fuck!” he shouts out into his empty flat.  Then he slowly lifts up the remote, shuts of the telly, and carefully set the remote back down on the table.  He stands, shuts off the lamp in the living room, and walks into his bedroom in the dark, taking slow, deliberate steps.

In his bedroom, he systematically undresses, carefully collecting up his dirty clothes and putting them gently in the hamper.  Naked in the dark, he lies on his bed, above the covers, and takes a single deep breath.  Then he brings a hand to his aching cock and mentally releases the dam in his mind, allowing all the thoughts and images he has been trying to suppress to roar into his head.

_Sherlock’s head bobbing in front of John’s groin; John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair; Sherlock moaning._

Lestrade dances the tips of his fingers softly up and down his cock, teasing himself.  The light touch sends thrills of excitement through him.

_John jerking Sherlock’s head forward and back by his hair; John’s voice; John’s eyes on his; Sherlock begging to be used, begging John to fuck his mouth._

He groans, gripping his cock more firmly and dragging his hand up and down, arching into his own touch.  He brings his other hand to his chest and ghosts his fingers across his pectoral muscles, gradually tracing little circles toward his nipple.

_Sherlock bucking and writhing as he comes silently with John’s cock in his mouth; John throwing his head back and calling out as he comes down Sherlock’s throat._

Lestrade brings his hand to his mouth and licks his palm before dropping his hand back to his cock and stroking faster.  With his other hand he starts to lightly pinch and tweak his nipple.  Pleasure rocks through his body from his nipple to his cock and he moans out loud.

_John sucking on his finger; John pushing him against the wall; John’s voice, low and rough in his ear, commanding him to touch himself._

Lestrade is writhing on his bed, grunting and moaning, one hand flying up and down his cock as he pinches and twists his nipple with the other.  Then he slows his hand down, gripping his cock harder, twisting his wrist and squeezing the head with every slow stroke.  The fingers on his nipple fall still, and he moves his hand across his chest to the other nipple, flicking it softly and then pinching gently in time with his strokes.  Wave after wave of pleasure is shuddering down his spine, heat pooling in his abdomen, breath rushing in and out of his lungs. 

In his head, he starts to allow himself to imagine what it would be like to be involved, to be touched by Sherlock, by John.  He squeezes his eyes tightly shut and lets the images fill his mind.

_Sherlock sucking and biting on his nipples; Sherlock’s pale eyes locked on his as he moans; Sherlock’s hand on his cock._

Lestrade groans, arching his neck and throwing his head back into the pillow as the hand on his cock speeds up again.

_John scraping his nails across his chest; John biting his neck; John forcing him down into the bed, erections grinding against each other._

He is thrusting up into his fist; hand on his chest scratching red furrows into his skin, tongue unconsciously flicking in and out of his mouth in time with his strokes.  The hot sensation in his stomach intensifies, pleasure jolting through his body and tightening the base of his spine.

_John sucking on his neck as Sherlock kisses his way down his body; John pulling his hair and biting his ear, murmuring delicious obscenities in that low, commanding voice; looking down to watch Sherlock sucking his cock, moaning, eyes closed in pleasure._

“Oh God, oh God, oh fuck!” Lestrade chokes out, arching his back off the bed as he feels his climax rushing through him, thoughts of Sherlock sucking his cock and John pulling his hair still filling his mind.  He feels his release splash hot onto his stomach and chest as he gasps and twitches, riding out his orgasm.  Finally, his muscles relax and he collapses back onto the bed, hands falling away from his body as he pants for air, little jolts of sensation still washing through him.

After a few minutes, the sensation of sticky liquid cooling on his body prompts him to get up and grab a towel.  He cleans himself up and drops back onto his bed, spent and exhausted.  He climbs under his covers and closes his eyes, thinking about what he has just done, how much he enjoyed it.  He has to admit to himself, that was the most intense orgasm he has experienced in quite some time.  And as he drifts off to sleep, he realizes with a sudden helpless feeling that he is almost certainly going to take John up on his offer.


	4. Chapter 4

It is nearly two weeks later, and Lestrade is standing on the steps of 221B Baker Street at twilight, feeling ridiculously nervous.  He is wearing well-fitting jeans and a nice but still casual dark red cotton button-down shirt, which he selected because he has been told it looks good on him.  In his hand is a six pack of beer.  He considered bringing a bottle of wine, but he does not know much about wine or how to go about selecting a quality bottle.  Also, wine would have made the evening feel a lot more like a date; with the beer, he can almost convince himself that he is just going to spend an evening with some mates.  Of course, that intense sensation of anxiety – the feeling of butterflies the size of kittens rolling around in his stomach as he stands on the doorstep – belies that idea.  But nevertheless he feels slightly comforted by the fiction.

He turns on the step and looks up at the steadily darkening sky, taking a deep breath.  Not for the first time in the last few days, he considers texting John, making up some excuse and cancelling their… dinner plans.  He even pulls out his phone and regards it for a moment, before putting it back in his pocket with a sigh.  He will not cancel, and he knows it.  Not after the last two weeks, the intense anticipation that he’s been building up in his own mind, the daydreams and fantasies.  He wants this too much now.  But that does not stop him from feeling nervous and fearful as he contemplates knocking on the door and finally initiating the act that may well bring all of his embarrassing fantasies into reality.

So, as he stands on the doorstep in the dim purple twilight, back still facing the door, he takes a moment to think about the past two weeks, in an active effort to avoid thinking about the next few hours.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

For nearly a week after his encounter with John at the bar, Lestrade had no cause to see the doctor or the consulting detective again.  He went to work, conducted investigations without consultant help, interacted with his coworkers, and came home, just the way he always had in the past.  His life looked normal again.  What was different was what was happening inside his head.  Visions of sex, of Sherlock and John and himself in all sorts of different situations, danced through his head.  It was as if he had broken the seal on some secret dirty vault in his mind, and now he could not get it to close.  These visions would pop up at inopportune times while he was at work, and he would suddenly find himself imagining Sherlock sucking him off under his desk, or John pressing him against the dirty wall of an alleyway at a crime scene.  Each time one of these thoughts occurred to him, he would wrestle to control himself and tamp it back down, to concentrate on work.  He blushed more in that week than he ever remembers having done in his life, although he is also fairly sure that it went unnoticed by his coworkers.

At home, alone in his miserable little flat with nothing to do but resent his post-divorce life, he gave up and let the images come.  He spent evening after evening calling up the visions that he so ruthlessly squashed while at work, letting his mind fill with thoughts of sex; of touching and sucking and licking and biting, getting increasingly comfortable with the idea of touching another man, or men, sexually.  He masturbated over and over again, more than he had since he was a teenager.  He had already decided for sure that he would be taking John up on his invitation at some point, and he was getting increasingly excited about it as the week went on.

But there was one thing he was not able to imagine, that never made it into his progressively more intricate and intense fantasies: actual sex.  He is, of course, familiar of the concept – it does not take much imagination to figure out how sex between two men would work – but he has absolutely no experience at all, of any kind, in that area.  His mind shied away from trying to imagine it, and so he confined his fantasies to acts with which he has some familiarity.  Besides which, Lestrade has absolutely no expectation that his experience with John and Sherlock will get that far.  And even if they somehow did choose to offer that intimacy, unlikely as it seems, he is certain that he would not accept.  It is too much, too far.

At the end of the week, a case had finally come up that required Sherlock’s assistance.  Room locked from the inside, no obvious way to identify the victim, ritualistic-looking knife wounds: all the things that Sherlock would enjoy.  And it was with a weird combination of excitement and trepidation that Lestrade texted him to tell him about the case.  Lestrade had not wanted to admit to himself that he was waiting for this opportunity, but he was.  He was looking forward to seeing John again, seeing what the doctor would do when they were face to face once more, but he was also nervous about it.  And he was especially nervous about seeing Sherlock, afraid that the detective would be able to immediately deduce all of the dirty things he had been imagining.

Once the pair arrived at the scene, Lestrade’s fears appeared to be unfounded.  Both John and Sherlock maintained their typical crime scene behavior.  Sherlock was excited about the case, dashing about and ranting and smiling at inappropriate things, and John was calm and centered and exasperated with Sherlock’s misplaced joy.  This time, Lestrade was prepared for it, did not panic at the apparent indifference, and was able to play the role of Detective Inspector as usual without difficulty. 

On the second day of the case, emboldened by the intensity of his own desire and the consistently typical behavior of the pair, Lestrade had taken it upon himself to initiate a little flirting.  The three men were in his office, Sherlock pacing around alternately spouting out theories and refuting himself as John and Lestrade sat quietly and watched.  Lestrade had turned to look at John, waiting until John returned his gaze with a quizzical expression.  Then he had smirked, gently bitten his lower lip, and slowly, so slowly, turned his head while maintaining the eye contact for as long as possible before letting his gaze slide to Sherlock, lip still between his teeth.  As he did it he saw John’s expression change from curious to satisfied, and he felt ridiculously pleased.  Then he noticed that Sherlock had stopped pacing and fallen silent, looking back at him blankly.  He released his lip and allowed his smile to deepen, expecting Sherlock to return it, since he must have been aware of the offer John had extended.  Instead, Sherlock looked back and forth between John and Lestrade for a moment and then _blushed deeply_ , turning away and taking a breath before continuing his running commentary.  And when he did, he was looking at the floor, rather than at either of the two men watching him.

Lestrade was completely shocked by this reaction.  Eyes wide, he turned to John, who looked entirely amused, and then looked back at Sherlock, who continued to explain his theories and deductions to the stained brown industrial carpet at his feet.

Within minutes, Sherlock had recovered his equilibrium and continued on as if nothing had happened, ultimately marching out of the office with a barked “Come on, John!”  Lestrade had no reason to follow them and remained behind, contemplating Sherlock’s reaction to his little bit of flirt, and his own reaction to Sherlock’s reaction.  Because he had discovered that he could think of nothing, absolutely nothing Sherlock could have done that would have turned him on more.

For the next two days, Lestrade did not quite dare to attempt to flirt again.  His contact with John and Sherlock was limited to revisiting the crime scene once and meeting a few times at the Yard to review evidence, during which others were always present.  Lestrade was not sure he could pull off flirting without being noticed, and he was certain that Sherlock blushing would be noticed, if it happened again.  So he did nothing, maintaining his normal behavior and working the case, and Sherlock and John did the same.  But at home, alone, Lestrade replayed that blush in his head over and over.  Something about seeing Sherlock looking so shy, so coy, was extremely appealing.  Lestrade’s desire to see more, to be involved, was getting increasingly intense.

On the fourth day, the case was resolved, with surprisingly few theatrics.  Sherlock had actually notified Lestrade about his conclusions, and the police were able to apprehend the suspected killer without difficulty.  Sherlock and John had simply come into the Yard after the police brought in the suspect so that Sherlock could point out the subtle details that confirmed him as the killer, and that was it.

And it was then – with no forethought or planning, as the pair strode out of the building – that Lestrade decided to tell John that he was interested.  He hurried out after them, looking around to be sure no one else was close by before calling John’s name.  John stopped and turned, while Sherlock, predictably, continued striding toward the street, hand already raised to hail a cab.

“Hey, John,” Lestrade began before pausing, suddenly realizing that he had no idea what to say.  John waited patiently.  “I… um… I was thinking about what you said…” he trailed off, feeling silly and shy.

“Yes?” John cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows, a small smile gracing his lips.

“Well, if you still… I mean, maybe I could… ” Lestrade tried again, but he could not seem to find the words.  Embarrassment, sour and hot, welled up in his chest, and he could feel himself starting to blush. 

John’s smile deepened.   “Yeah, want to come over to the flat on Friday night?  We’ll have dinner.  You know, as long as no interesting cases come up or anything.”

“Um, yeah, sounds good,” Lestrade answered, relieved that John was not going to make him spell it out.

“Great!  I’ll tell Sherlock.” John tipped him a wink and turned, jogging to meet Sherlock where he waited in a cab looking annoyed.  And Lestrade had immediately found himself filled with equal measures of anxiety and anticipation, both of which increased steadily in the days leading up to their dinner plans.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Now, standing on the doorstep in the dim velvet light of nightfall, Lestrade tries once again to conquer his fear.  He wants this, he is certain.  And so finally he turns his back to the street, raises his hand, takes a deep breath, and rings the bell for 221B Baker Street.

The door is answered by Sherlock’s landlady, Mrs. Hudson.  She welcomes Lestrade with a wide smile, stepping out of the doorway to allow him into the building.

“Hullo, Detective Inspector!” she greets him happily.  She is shrugging on a purple coat as she talks, small suitcase at her feet.  “John mentioned you would be stopping by.  It’s nice of you to spend time with the boys.”

Lestrade, expecting to see John at the door, is slightly taken aback at the appearance of the cheerful landlady.  He swallows down his anxiety and smiles back at her.  “Mrs. Hudson, nice to see you again.  Yes, John invited me over for dinner.”  He eyes the suitcase briefly.  “Are you going somewhere?”

“Oh, yes, I’m visiting my sister for the weekend,” Mrs. Hudson replies, fastening the buttons on her coat.  “Just leaving, actually.  You keep an eye on my boys for me, will you?  Heaven knows what Sherlock will get up to without me here.  Did you see what he did to my wall?”

“I’ll do my best, but no promises,” Lestrade grins.  “Here, let me help you with that.”  He reaches to pick up her suitcase.

“Oh nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson says, shooing his hand back and picking up the case herself.  “It’s not that heavy.  You go ahead upstairs, dear, they’re expecting you.”  With another sunny smile, the landlady steps out the door, closing it firmly behind her.  In the silence that follows, Lestrade can dimly hear the sound of the telly from upstairs.  He swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and then walks up the stairs.

The door into the flat is open, and as he comes up the stairs he can see the light of the telly flickering over the clutter that lies strewn about the flat.  He reaches the door and leans his head in, spotting John sitting on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table.  He’s wearing faded jeans and a pale blue jumper that brings out the cobalt blue of his eyes, and he is barefoot.  He looks casual and comfortable.

“Greg, hello!” John jumps up, smiling, and hurries to the door.  “Come on in.”  Lestrade does, holding the six pack in front of him like a shield.

“I brought beer,” he says unnecessarily, immediately feeling like an idiot.

“Oh, yeah, great!”  John takes the beer from him, pulling out two bottles.  “Let’s have one now.  Hope you don’t mind warm beer – I don’t want to risk trying to put them in the fridge.”

“Um, no, that’s fine,” Lestrade takes the bottle John is proffering, stepping further into the flat and looking around.  Sherlock is sitting in the kitchen, his eyes glued to a microscope, wearing yet another damned tight button-up shirt, this one a shade of deep plum.  He does not look around as Lestrade enters.

“Don’t mind him,” John says, following Lestrade’s gaze.  “He’s finishing up an experiment, because he knows that if he isn’t done by dinner I’m just going to shove it onto the floor!”  By the end of the statement, John’s voice has risen to a near-yell.  In response, Sherlock waves a hand vaguely in their direction without turning his head.  John rolls his eyes, and Lestrade chuckles, feeling himself relax at the familiar bickering between the two men.

“Anyway, _Top Gear_ is on,” John continues in a normal tone of voice, moving back to his spot on the sofa with his beer.  Lestrade takes a seat in another chair, popping the top off of his bottle and taking a long drink.

The two men settle into a companionable silence, punctuated by occasional comments about the cars on the show.  Outside the windows the light has completely faded now and night has truly set in, but inside the flat the lamps cast a warm cozy glow.  Lestrade is surprised to find himself feeling somewhat comfortable as he and John watch telly together.  Just two blokes watching telly and drinking beer.

“John, phone.” Sherlock’s voice suddenly calls out from the kitchen. 

John stirs in his seat but does not get up.   “I’m watching something, Sherlock.  Get your own bloody phone!”

There is a pause, and then “John, phone!”

“Oh, for the love of…” John stands up and walks to the desk, looking for Sherlock’s phone.  “Where is it, Sherlock?”

“Table.”

“The kitchen table?  Where you’re sitting?” John’s voice is incredulous.  Lestrade has to hide his smile, turning his head and taking another drink of beer as John huffs in exasperation and heads into the kitchen to pass Sherlock his phone.  He comes back out looking frustrated and flops back onto the sofa.  Lestrade grins at him, but John refuses to look in his direction, keeping his eyes firmly on the telly and grumbling under his breath.  After a few minutes, he relaxes, and the two men continue to sit quietly, drinking beer and exchanging occasional friendly conversation.  Until:

“John, pen!”

“Oh, I swear to God,” John mumbles.  Then, louder: “There’s one right by your hand, Sherlock.”

“That’s a felt-tip John.  A _felt-tip pen._ ”  Sherlock’s voice sounds almost scandalized.

“Is that pen inadequate, then?  Does it not meet your pen needs?” Sarcasm is practically dripping from John’s words.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock responds, not appearing to notice John’s tone.  “I need a ballpoint.  Bring me one.”

John closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand.  His lips are moving as if he is talking to himself, but no sound emerges.  Lestrade is amused at his obvious exasperation with Sherlock, but also a little confused.  This is the John he thought he knew, the John he has always seen before, allowing Sherlock to boss him around, seething quietly but still doing as he asks every time.  Lestrade finds himself wondering where the other John, powerful dominant John, has gone.

“John!  Pen!”

“Hang on!” John stands again, stomping over to the desk and picking up a pen.  Lestrade watches the exchange, wondering.  John is being so… compliant.  It surprises him.  He had somehow expected that John and Sherlock would be different, now that he has seen the power dynamic they share in private.  Clearly he was mistaken.  He wonders how the rest of the night will proceed, with John acting so soft and Sherlock so distant.

“Here’s your pen.  Anything else I can get you while I’m up?” John asks, his voice falsely sweet.

“No, thank you John, that’s all I need,” Sherlock answers, again appearing not to notice the edge to John’s tone.

“Good.  I hope you’re almost done, because I’m ordering the take-away now, so one way or another I’m going to be clearing the table soon.”  John comes back into the living room with an irritated expression, holding a paper menu.

“I was thinking Indian food.  How does that sound?”

“Sounds good, that’s one of my favorites,” Lestrade replies with a smile as John pulls out his phone and dials the number.

After ordering the food, John walks back into the kitchen.  “Sherlock, you have twenty minutes to wrap this up before the food is delivered.”  Lestrade does not hear an answer, but John comes back into the room looking resolved.  “It’s been ages since I’ve eaten at that table,” he says, shaking his head.  “I’m not kidding about pushing his bloody experiment onto the floor.”

“I can’t wait to see that,” Lestrade answers, grinning openly in amusement.

“Yeah, it probably won’t go that well for me.  Lucky thing I have a policeman here to back me up.”  John grins back at Lestrade.

“Oh no, don’t get me involved.”  Lestrade holds up his hands, palms out in a defensive gesture.  “You’re on your own with this one.”  They both laugh, and then return their attention to the telly.  Lestrade feels entirely relaxed now; the easy camaraderie with John and the familiar behavior by Sherlock combine to put him completely at his ease.

It is slightly more than twenty minutes later when the doorbell buzzes downstairs.  John stands and walks toward the door to the flat.  As he passes the kitchen, he leans in.

“Food’s here, Sherlock.  Time to put it away.”

“John, I am nearly finished.  Surely the food can wait for…”

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh, seriously, John” Sherlock’s voice is dripping with distain.  “Lestrade is a bachelor, I’m sure he won’t mind eating in front of the telly.  This is important!”

“We will not make our guest eat at the coffee table!  We’re eating in here!”  Just as John crosses his arms, bracing himself for an argument, the doorbell sounds again.

“I really think…” Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off.

“I have to get the door.  Clean.  It.  Up.”  John stomps down the stairs to retrieve the food.

Lestrade stands, but hovers in the living room.  He does not think it would be wise to enter the kitchen in the middle of this argument, so instead he just sort of mills about, waiting to see how it pans out.  Listening, he can hear the muffled sound of John talking to the delivery person downstairs, but from the kitchen there is silence.  Within a few minutes, John comes back up the stairs carrying two bags.  He smiles and winks at Lestrade as he enters, but then puts on a stern face, heading back into the kitchen.  Lestrade stays where he is, out of sight of the kitchen table and the scene of the argument, smiling just a little bit as he listens.

“OK, if you won’t clean it up, then I will,” John says.  There is a scraping noise and the sound of glass tinkling.

“John, really, this is a crucial moment.  Put that down!”  Sherlock sounds annoyed now.  John does not answer, but there is another sound of glass clinking, louder this time.

“John!”  No response.  “Stop it!”  No response.  “If you would just…”  No response.  “OK, alright, fine!  I’ll move it.  Stop touching things, you’ll contaminate the results.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John says, and his voice sounds completely sincere to Lestrade, who is grinning widely now as he listens to the exchange.  He waits a few moments and then steps into the kitchen.  At the same time, Sherlock storms out, brushing past him.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says flatly as he passes.

“Sherlock,” he answers, nodding at the detective’s back as he walks by.  Sherlock stomps to the sofa, flops down on his side with his back to the room, and curls himself into a surprisingly compact ball.  His purple shirt is stretched taut across his back, the knobs of his spine pushing at the thin material.  Lestrade swallows, his mouth suddenly dry as he remembers the last time he saw Sherlock’s shirt pulled across his back this way.  A little bit of the tension he was feeling earlier comes rising up in his chest as he remembers what he came here for.

“Come and get it,” John says from behind him, and Lestrade turns quickly, aware that he had been staring at Sherlock’s back for a little too long.  John is smiling at him when he turns.  “Don’t mind him, you know what a stroppy git he can be.”  On the sofa, Sherlock shifts irritably at John’s comment but does not turn around.

Lestrade smiles back.  “Do I ever,” he answers, deliberately loud.  Sherlock shifts again and sighs aloud.  Lestrade and John share a conspiratorial grin before moving to sit at the table.

The take-away boxes sit gathered at the center of the table, open and steaming, spilling the delicious smell of curry into the kitchen.  Forks are stuck haphazardly into the boxes, and three mismatched plates have been set.  Around the sparsely laid table, the kitchen is a mess, dishes, papers, and random unidentifiable items piled on every flat surface, but it feels comfortable and homey to Lestrade.  The remnants of Sherlock’s earlier experiment are set in an orderly arrangement on one counter, and Lestrade feels a brief but powerful urge to swap a few of the beakers around when he sees it.  He resists, and takes a seat.

John sets two new beers on the table and takes the seat immediately to his right, leaving an empty plate set across from him, presumably for Sherlock should he decide to stop sulking and join them.  Lestrade does not expect that to happen.

“This is about as domestic as we get, sorry,” John says, indicating the collection of boxes.

Lestrade shrugs.  “A step above me, then,” he says, nodding to his plate.  “I usually eat straight out of the container.”  They both chuckle.

The two men spoon portions onto their plates and dig in.  There is little talking as they eat, both munching happily on the Indian food and sipping beer.  Lestrade takes large helpings of the tasty food, and quickly finds himself feeling full.  He pushes his plate away and leans back a little bit in his chair, satisfied.  After a moment, John does the same.  Sherlock still has not joined them, and Lestrade cannot hear anything from the other room.

John stands and starts collecting up their plates and the take-away boxes.  He sets the plates in the sink and shoves the boxes into the fridge quickly, standing in front of the open door so that Lestrade cannot see inside.  Lestrade thinks about what might be in there for a moment, and feels grateful that he was not able to see.  Then John turns to him with a saucy smile.

“Now I have a treat for us,” he says, turning to the counter and pulling out a box that is half-buried in loose papers.  He places the box on the table and opens it, watching Lestrade’s face.

“Oh, banoffee pie!  Brilliant!” Lestrade exclaims, truly delighted.  Banoffee pie is one of his favorites.

“What?” comes a squawk from the living room, and in a moment Sherlock is standing in the entry to the kitchen, eyeing the pie on the table with suspicion.  “Where did that come from?”

“Bought it this morning.”

Sherlock looks briefly at John and then glances around the kitchen.  “Ah, you hid it in plain sight.  I see you have been paying attention, John.”  He smirks and takes a seat at the table directly across from Lestrade.  John smiles in return and passes out little plates before cutting into the pie.  Lestrade is surprised to see John serve Sherlock a large piece, which he digs into with apparent relish.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, amusement tingeing his tone, “do you have a sweet tooth?”

“Don’t be absurd, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, sounding disdainful.  “It is simply a very efficient method for getting a large amount of calories while consuming a small amount of food.”  Sitting to his side, John turns his face so that only Lestrade can see him, and winks.  Lestrade looks back down to his plate, trying to cover his smile by cutting into his own piece.

He is spooning his second bite into his mouth when he hears a small sound of pleasure, almost a moan.  He looks up quickly, but neither of the other men sitting at the table shows any reaction, both apparently eating calmly.  Lestrade looks down to scoop himself another bite, and then looks back up as he brings it to his mouth.  At the same time, Sherlock brings up his own spoonful of pie.  His eyes downcast, Sherlock holds the small bite on the spoon just in front of his lips and extends his tongue.  He slowly draws his tongue across the spoonful, gathering cream and toffee in a soft pile against his lips.  Then, eyes fluttering closed, he draws his tongue into his mouth, sighing aloud as he closes his lips around the bite of pie.

Lestrade watches, mesmerized, his own scoop of pie held stationary in front of his open mouth as Sherlock positively caresses the pie with his tongue.  He tilts his head up slightly, expression of bliss on his face, and Lestrade can see his throat working as he swallows the bite down before bringing the still half-full spoon to his mouth and sucking the remaining toffee and crust from it with a little slurp.  Lestrade realizes he is staring, his breath coming a little faster, and he hastily looks back down to his own plate, stuffing his bite of pie in his mouth quickly.  He listens to the clink of cutlery on the plate as Sherlock gathers another scoop of pie, and cannot resist looking up as he brings it to his mouth.  This time he holds the spoon up to his lips and licks hard at the mound of pie, swiping up the entire scoop with a wicked twist of his tongue and drawing it into his mouth.  He hums softly as he savors the bite before swallowing it.

Lestrade glances quickly at John to gauge his reaction.  John is looking back at him avidly, an expression of hunger on his face that Lestrade is certain has nothing at all to do with pie.  As soon as Lestrade looks over, John drags his finger through his own pie and brings the finger up to his mouth, sucking hard at the creamy substance.  His cheeks hollow out as he sucks his finger clean, eyes locked on Lestrade’s.  Then he draws his finger out of his mouth and repeats the gesture.  Lestrade feels a wave of heat rush through his body and he exhales hard, his own pie forgotten as he looks back and forth between John and Sherlock.

After a moment, John stands up and steps around the table toward Sherlock.  He stops behind Sherlock’s chair, and looks over his head at Lestrade, face impassive.  Then he brings his left hand up and gently threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock immediately stills, eyes falling closed.  He drops his spoon to the table and presses his head up into John’s hand.  Lestrade feels his heart start beating faster at the sight of John’s fingers disappearing in that riot of dark curls, as he remembers the last time he saw this sight.  _Oh god._

John continues to run his hand through Sherlock’s hair, crooking his fingers and scraping his nails lightly along the scalp as he does.  Sherlock is rolling his head against the touch, catlike, as John strokes him, an expression of bliss on his face.  After several strokes, John’s hand slows and stops, pushed deeply into Sherlock’s silken hair.  John slowly tightens his grip until he is firmly clutching a handful of soft, dark hair, just holding without pulling.  Then he gently tilts Sherlock’s head back, tipping his face up toward the ceiling, allowing the overhead lights to illuminate the alien planes and angles of Sherlock’s face, his eyes still closed.  John looks down at Sherlock with a tender expression, and then leans forward, bringing his face around the back of Sherlock’s head and planting gentle kisses along his neck just below his right ear.

From his seat across the table, Lestrade can see the whole expanse of Sherlock’s pale neck as John pulls his head back.  He can see John’s mouth pressing gently against Sherlock’s flesh, hear the soft susurration of Sherlock’s breath as he exhales.  Lestrade is entranced by this tender moment between the two men, and he begins to feel like an intruder, witnessing such an intimate scene.  He shifts slightly in his chair, intending to look away, possibly make an excuse and leave the room.

Then John opens his eyes and looks directly at Lestrade, his mouth still pressed against Sherlock’s neck.  Lestrade looks back, nailed in place by the blazing intensity of John’s gaze.  John lifts his head slightly and pulls his lips back from his teeth.  His eyes flick to Sherlock’s neck and then back to Lestrade.  He darts his head forward again and catches Sherlock’s flesh between his bared teeth, biting hard, closing his lips around the skin and sucking.  Sherlock gasps and then arches his neck further, offering his throat to John.  Lestrade starts breathing harder, arousal rising at the sight.

John continues to bite and suck at Sherlock’s neck, leaving dark purple marks along the alabaster skin of his throat as Sherlock gasps and pants.  Still holding Sherlock’s head back with one hand and sucking on his neck, John brings the other hand around and starts slowly unfastening the buttons on his shirt, gradually baring more and more of his pale chest to Lestrade’s gaze.  He scrapes his fingernails down the bare skin, eliciting a sharp hiss from Sherlock and leaving four pink furrows across the visible expanse of his chest.  John smiles around the skin in his teeth, flicking his eyes back to Lestrade, who grips the edge of the table in front of him, mouth open, working to control his breathing as his arousal grows.


	5. Chapter 5

John straightens up and releases Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock’s head falls forward, his eyes still closed, mouth open and panting.  And then Sherlock straightens his head up and opens his eyes, looking directly at Lestrade.  He already looks thoroughly debauched, hair tousled, bite marks down one side of his neck, shirt hanging open and scratches across his chest.  His pupils are blown wide, making his unearthly eyes look darker, and the expression on his face is softer than Lestrade has ever seen it.  As their eyes meet, Sherlock’s lips turn up in a slow sensual smile, and Lestrade feels intense lust rushing through him.

John steps around to stand beside Sherlock across the table from Lestrade.  He runs his hands down the sides of Sherlock’s face, and then gently turns Sherlock to face him.  Eyes closed, he leans down and brings his lips to Sherlock’s in a tender kiss.  Lestrade watches, feeling touched again to witness the affection between the two men.  John angles Sherlock’s head and deepens the kiss, and it quickly becomes heated, the two men sucking and biting at each other’s lips, tongues battling in the space between their mouths.  Lestrade feels anticipation shiver through him at the sight.  John brings a hand up to Sherlock’s bare chest and tweaks a nipple with his fingers, causing Sherlock to break the kiss, throwing his head back and moaning.  Lestrade groans along with him, desire pulsing through him.

John smiles against Sherlock’s face.  He buries his nose in Sherlock’s hair and whispers something Lestrade cannot hear into Sherlock’s ear, fingers still working his nipple.  Sherlock draws a shuddering breath and nods, pressing the side of his head briefly against John’s face.  John turns and smirks at Lestrade, then straightens up and walks out of the room, disappearing down the hallway into what Lestrade imagines is a bedroom.  In front of him, Sherlock takes a moment to collect himself before standing and walking around the table.  He extends a hand to Lestrade, looking down at him through his lashes, his expression soft.  He looks almost demure, not a word Lestrade ever expected to associate with Sherlock, and he finds himself even more aroused by the sight.

He takes Sherlock’s hand and stands up.  Sherlock smiles at him and turns, pulling Lestrade down the hallway by the hand and into the bedroom.  As he steps through, he sees that John is waiting, standing by the bed, and that he has removed his jumper and shirt.  A bedside lamp casts a soft golden light over the planes and muscles of his torso, and Lestrade bites his lip as he looks.  Behind him, he hears the door click shut softly as John stalks forward.  Sherlock steps around him, purple shirt still hanging open from his shoulders.  Sherlock presses against his side as John steps up and presses against his chest.  He finds himself forced backward against the closed door, and his eyes fall shut despite himself as he gets lost in the sensation of the two men touching him.

He feels a hand running through his hair, another pressing against his hip, as the buttons of his shirt are being quickly pulled open.  Then there is a mouth on his neck, hot and wet and sucking softly.  He moans, casting his head to the side to bare more of his neck to the delicious sensation.  His shirt is open now and the fingers working his buttons move to jerk his shirt out of his jeans and push it back until it catches on his shoulders.  He feels two warm palms running up and down his bare chest, and he shudders.  The mouth on his neck is moving up, kissing and sucking, toward his ear.

Just as a warm tongue slips into his ear, he feels another set of lips close on his nipple, sucking sharply.  He gasps and then lets out a loud shuddering moan at the intense sensations sparking through him.  The tongue in his ear twists, teeth closing on his earlobe and sucking, while the hand in his hair tightens almost to the point of pain.  He feels the mouth on his nipple biting lightly.  Hands are still caressing him; running up his chest, across his shoulders, and back down to the waistband of his jeans.  He moans again and bucks up at the sensation when the mouth around his nipple sucks in air sharply, drawing the cold air hard across the sensitive flesh.

“Oh… oh god,” he groans, completely losing himself in the overwhelming sensations rocking through him.  It is so good, too good, and he starts whimpering steadily.  His cock is straining against his jeans and he is rolling his hips, trying to find some friction, but there is nothing there to thrust against.  The mouth at his ear moves back down to his neck, sucking harder and biting as his hair is pulled harder.  The mouth on his nipple closes again, warming and sucking softly, an amazing counterpoint to the almost-pain of the hand in his hair and the mouth at his neck.  Then, suddenly, he feels teeth bite down hard on his nipple.

His head slams back against the door and he keens loudly as pleasure and pain blend together in his body.  It feels perfect, so fucking perfect, and he thrusts his chest up into that mouth, stretching his neck still further to bare it to those teeth, bucking his hips forward.  It continues for a timeless time as he writhes and whimpers, and he is almost on the verge of coming in his boxers as he thrusts against nothing.

And then, all at once, it stops.  Lestrade slumps against the door behind him for a moment, panting as he recovers himself.  Then he opens his eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Greg,” John says, staring at him hungrily.  “That was… you’re just… ugh… amazing.”  John is panting and flushed; erection visible through his jeans as he stands in front of Lestrade.

“I concur,” Sherlock adds.  He is also panting, staring back at Lestrade with an equally hungry gaze.

Lestrade barks out a sharp laugh.  “That’s just such a Sherlock thing to say,” he says in response to the two confused looks his laugh evokes.  John giggles at the comment, while Sherlock looks haughty.

“Oh, stop, you know it’s true,” John says to him, giggling harder.  Sherlock draws himself up and opens his mouth, clearly prepared to deliver some scathing insult, but John steps forward, pushing Sherlock’s silk shirt off of his shoulders and allowing it to slither to the floor.  He hooks his fingers around Sherlock’s waistband and draws him closer, moving in to lick at his neck.  Sherlock stills as soon as John pulls him close, expression morphing into one of pleasure immediately.  Lestrade watches, entranced by the way Sherlock goes docile under John’s touch.

Lestrade remains leaning against the door for a moment, attempting to calm himself a bit so that he does not come in his pants like a teenager at the first touch, watching the two men together.  They are stunning, he realizes as he looks.  Sherlock is tall and slim, all ethereal beauty with his striking cheek bones, pale eyes, porcelain skin, and sensual lips.  John is short, broad and muscular, his skin a warm glowing tan; pale scars from his time in battle stand out in sharp relief across the muscles of his chest and shoulder.  The contrast between the two men highlights their differences, making John look broader and sturdier, his skin more golden, while Sherlock appears taller and slimmer and even paler.  Both are more beautiful when they are together like this, and Lestrade feels privileged to have the opportunity to witness it.

Once he catches his breath, Lestrade steps forward, wanting to be a part of their embrace.  John turns as Lestrade gets near, catching a belt loop and pulling him in.  John leans forward and starts feathering kisses across Lestrade’s bare chest as he pushes his shirt all the way off his arms and lets it fall.  As he kisses, John arches his neck to the side.  Sherlock steps behind John, sandwiching him against Lestrade, and bends forward to leave sucking kisses along the exposed length of neck.  Lestrade keeps his eyes open, watching John’s lips move across his chest and Sherlock’s mouth on John’s neck.  Sherlock opens his eyes and looks up at Lestrade as he sucks John’s skin into his mouth, his expression dark and smoldering.  Lestrade feels pleasure wash through him at the sensation on his chest and the look in Sherlock’s eyes.  He moans softly.

John breaks off and steps out from between Lestrade and Sherlock.  Lestrade looks across the short distance separating him from Sherlock, admiring the pale form before him.  Sherlock arches his back slightly and lifts his chin, reveling in Lestrade’s admiring gaze for a moment.  Then he steps forward, rests his hands on Lestrade’s shoulders, and lowers his mouth to Lestrade’s ear, exhaling warm air across the sensitive skin of his neck.

“I’m glad that you decided to come tonight,” Sherlock purrs into Lestrade’s ear, his voice low and deep.  Lestrade shivers at the sound, the feel of breath blowing warm and moist on his neck.  Before he can answer, he feels John press against his back, hands reaching around his hips and coming to rest on the fly of his jeans.  John places soft kisses across the top of his back, just below his shoulders, exhaling warm breath across his skin as his hands work to open Lestrade’s jeans.  At the same time, Sherlock lowers his mouth slightly and licks softly along the side of Lestrade’s neck and across the top of his shoulder.  Lestrade’s eyes fall shut again and he exhales hard, shivering as goose bumps rise across his chest.  John’s hands are brushing over his straining cock as he pulls Lestrade’s fly open, just soft enough to tease without providing any real friction.

Once his jeans are unfastened, John immediately pushes them off his hips to the ground.  John places his hand on Lestrade’s arm and turns him around, holding him steady as he steps out of his trousers, leaving him in only his boxers.  John, Lestrade is surprised to see, has already removed his jeans.  He steps forward, pressing his body along Lestrade’s and grinding their cloth-covered erections together.  Lestrade gasps at the intense jolt of pleasure that shoots through him at the sensation.  _Oh yes, oh god._ He brings his arms up, wrapping them around John’s broad shoulders and threading the fingers of one hand through John’s hair.  He presses his forehead against John’s, eyes squeezed shut, and bucks his hips forward, grinding their erections together.  John thrusts back against him, grunting.

Too soon, John stills his hips and steps away.  Lestrade whimpers at the loss of contact and opens his eyes to see John standing in front of him, panting, his own eyes still shut.  He feels a soft hand run across his shoulders and back, and Sherlock leans in to whisper in his ear again.

“Come sit down,” Sherlock says, exerting gentle pressure on Lestrade’s shoulder to turn him around.  He steers him toward a short comfortable-looking armchair set in the corner of the bedroom and presses him down into it.  It is not until Lestrade sits and Sherlock steps back that he realizes that Sherlock is naked, his entire beautiful form bared for Lestrade to see.  He looks glorious, tall and fair, the marks from earlier still visible on his neck and chest, erect cock jutting from his groin.  Lestrade almost loses his breath at the sight.

John steps up beside Sherlock, and now he is also naked, his warm skin glowing in the dim light of the room.  Sherlock turns to John and leans down to kiss him heatedly, threading his hands through the shorter man’s hair and grunting.  John brings both hands around Sherlock’s back and drags his nails down hard, leaving ten long furrows in the skin of his back as Sherlock throws his head back and lets out a deep moan.  Lestrade leans forward in the chair where he is seated, watching with rapt attention.  Then John brings his hands up to cup Sherlock’s face.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John asks in a husky voice, as he rubs his erection against Sherlock’s thigh.  Sherlock drops his eyes and then looks silently up at John through his lashes, the expression on his face almost bashful.  John looks back at him and smiles.  “Tell us what you want, Sherlock.  Tell Greg.”  Lestrade shivers at the words, the sound of John’s voice.

Slowly, so slowly, Sherlock turns to face Lestrade where he is sitting in the chair.  He takes a step forward, and then gently folds down onto his knees, hanging his head so that his face is obscured by his hair.  Lestrade watches, leaning forward, as Sherlock remains motionless in front of him, head bowed.  Behind Sherlock, John is also watching.

“Mmm, yes, Sherlock, oh yes,” John murmurs softly.  Sherlock sits for another beat and then raises his head, predatory expression on his face.  He places his hands on the ground in front of him, raises his hips, and _crawls_ across the ground until his face is between Lestrade’s parted thighs.  Lestrade leans back, heart pounding, arousal crackling through him as he looks down to where Sherlock is kneeling at his feet.  He holds his breath as Sherlock’s lips part.

“I want to suck you, Lestrade,” Sherlock breathes, voice rolling off his tongue like warm honey.  Lestrade’s cock jumps in his boxers at the sound of it.  “I want to suck your cock until you come in my mouth.  May I?”  He licks his lips.

For a moment Lestrade freezes as the most intense desire he has ever felt washes through his body.  His mouth falls open but he cannot draw a breath.  Sherlock looks up at him, tousled dark curls falling across his forehead, eyes wide and dark with arousal, lips parted as he waits for a response.  Behind him, John brings a hand up and starts to lightly stroke himself as he watches the scene.  Finally, _finally,_ the raw desire pounding through his mind recedes slightly and Lestrade manages to suck in a harsh breath.

“Oh fuck yes, Sherlock,” he chokes out on his exhale.  Sherlock smiles up at him and then leans forward and scrapes his teeth softly across Lestrade’s erection through his underwear, and it is all Lestrade can do to stop himself from thrusting up into Sherlock’s face at the shock of pleasure that courses through him.  Sherlock closes his lips over Lestrade’s cock and places long sucking kisses along the shaft through the cloth, leaving a line of wet patches behind.  Lestrade writhes under the onslaught of sensation, feeling like it is both too much and not enough at the same time.

Sherlock leans back on his knees and brings his hands up to Lestrade’s hips, grasping the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down softly.  Lestrade has to flex his hips up awkwardly to make room, and then Sherlock is able to slide the underwear down and over his legs.  He removes them from Lestrade’s feet and casts them over his shoulder without looking, his eyes locked intently on Lestrade’s erect cock.  He licks his lips, leaving them wet and shiny with saliva, and leans forward again.

Sherlock drags his tongue up from the base of Lestrade’s cock to the top, pulling back just before he reaches the head.  He pulls Lestrade’s cock down toward himself with a finger and continues to lick along the shaft, careful to coat every part with saliva, but always pulls away before his tongue touches the head.  Lestrade is moaning and grunting as pleasure fills him, working to remain still and fighting the urge to just grab Sherlock’s head and thrust into his mouth.

Sherlock pulls his head back away from Lestrade’s straining erection, still holding it hooked with one finger.  He waits until Lestrade looks down at him, and then, once their eyes meet, he slowly leans forward and closes his lush lips around the head of Lestrade’s weeping cock and sucks softly.  Lestrade groans loudly at the erotic sight, pleasure surging through him.  Sherlock smiles around the cock in his mouth and with no warning he takes Lestrade into his mouth as deeply as he can, sucking hard.  Lestrade’s head slams against the back of the chair and he cannot stop himself as he moans and thrusts his hips up into that sinfully hot mouth.

Sherlock starts bobbing his mouth up and down on Lestrade’s cock, changing rhythm and speed and depth, sucking hard and then softly, pulling off to lick along the length and then swallowing the whole thing down again.  Lestrade keeps his head back, eyes squeezed shut, moaning continuously.  He wants to watch, he really does, he had _intended_ to watch, but he cannot.  It feels so good, so amazingly intense, that he literally cannot lift his head from where it rests against the padded chair back.  The muscles in his back are tightening as pleasure ripples along his spine.

Suddenly he feels a hand touching his face.  He opens his eyes, rolling his head to the side, and sees John standing beside his chair, leaning over him, staring intently at his face.

“God, you look fucking amazing,” he says before bringing his mouth crashing down on Lestrade’s.  Lestrade has a moment, just a moment to think about how this is the first time he has kissed a man, kissed John, how kissing feels so much more intimate than the other things they have done so far tonight, before John pushes his tongue into Lestrade’s mouth and all of his thoughts are washed away by the onslaught of sensation.  Sherlock’s mouth is still working his cock and John is thrusting his tongue in and out of Lestrade’s mouth rhythmically.  Wave after wave of pleasure washes through him and he grunts into John’s open mouth, bucking in the chair.  Heat and pleasure are filling him, pooling at the base of his spine, and he knows that he is about to come.  Suddenly John breaks the kiss and straightens up.

“Oh God, that mouth,” he gasps out, panting.  “I have to feel it.  Greg, suck me.”

_Holy shit!_ Lestrade hesitates, opening his eyes and lifting his head to look at John.  He was not planning, had not intended to... well, to be on the giving end of such an act, although he was obviously fine with being on the receiving end and… _what the fuck?_   Lestrade looks down.  In response to his hesitation, Sherlock has stopped; Lestrade’s cock as deep as he can take it but holding perfectly still.  He is not sucking, not moving any part of his mouth, applying extremely soft, almost nonexistent pressure.  He brings his hands up from where he has been bracing himself on the floor and grasps Lestrade’s hips tightly, still not moving his mouth at all, looking up at Lestrade through his fringe of curly dark hair.

Lestrade closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  He tries to shift his hips slightly, desperate to get some friction from Sherlock’s mouth on his aching cock, but Sherlock holds him anchored in place with the grip on his hips.  Lestrade takes another deep breath, and turns his eyes back up to John, who is standing patiently beside him, still looking intently at his face.

“God, Greg, your mouth felt so amazing on my tongue.  I want to feel it on my cock.  You’ll like it, I know you will.  It feels so good, Greg.”  John’s voice is low and sensuous, and as he talks, Sherlock swallows once around Lestrade’s erection.  He convulses at the feeling on his over-sensitized cock and whimpers, still looking at John.  “Just open your mouth, Greg.  Open it for me.”

Lestrade whimpers again, closing his eyes and almost involuntarily trying to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth.  And he thinks about it for a moment, about sucking cock.  The idea is strange to him, but not too bad, and he _needs_ to feel Sherlock sucking him again, to feel that mouth sliding up and down his cock.  He opens his eyes and looks up to John, licking his lips, and then drops his gaze to John’s cock, just below eye level where John stands next to his chair.  He licks his lips again and leans forward toward John, closing his eyes and tentatively opening his mouth.

“Oh yes Greg, that’s right, just like that,” John purrs, moving forward until his cock brushes against Lestrade’s lips.  At the same time Sherlock slowly slides his mouth up Lestrade’s cock and then down again.  Lestrade nearly sobs in relief before extending his tongue to flick across the tip of John’s cock.  He trails his tongue across the head softly before opening his mouth wider and allowing John to push into his mouth.  Sherlock continues to suck slowly up and down the length of his cock, providing delicious friction but not so much that Lestrade cannot concentrate on what he is doing with his mouth.  His impending orgasm has receded in the face of this new stimulus, but pleasure and arousal are still washing through his body.

Lestrade swirls his tongue around the head of John’s cock in his mouth and then tentatively tightens his lips and sucks softly.  It feels strange in his mouth – bigger than he expected – smooth and velvety soft against his tongue.  He draws a deep breath in through his nose and his nostrils are filled with a rich, earthy smell; unfamiliar but not unpleasant.  He slides his mouth back along the length, almost letting John’s cock fall out of his mouth, and then slides his head forward again, taking it in further.  He sucks again, harder, rolling his tongue along the length in his mouth as well as he can.  Above him, John hisses and threads his fingers through Lestrade’s hair, holding but not pulling.

“Fuck yes Greg, just like that, suck my cock,” John moans out.  The words send a shocking wave of pleasure crashing through Lestrade, and he sucks harder, moving his head up and down John’s cock more quickly.  He finds that he is enjoying the pressure of John’s cock in his mouth, the feeling of it pressing on his tongue and cheeks, the sensation of friction on his tongue as he drags it along John’s length.  He moans as he sucks, taking John’s cock even deeper into his mouth.  Sherlock starts to move faster on his cock when John starts talking, sucking hard, and Lestrade moans again.

“Oh yes, so fucking good,” John says, his voice low.  “Oh God Sherlock, I love the way you look right now.  You look so fucking hot, sucking Greg’s cock.”  Sherlock moans around Lestrade, sucking hard as he draws his mouth up the length of Lestrade’s cock and swirls his tongue around the head.  Lestrade grunts around John’s cock in his mouth and sucks hard in response, pleasure coursing through him.

“Sherlock, I want you to touch yourself.  Touch yourself while you suck Greg’s cock.”  Lestrade moans again at the sound of John’s voice.  Sherlock sucks hard once more and then releases him, and Lestrade sucks in air sharply through his nose as the cool air hits his wet cock.

“God, yes, John,” Sherlock gasps out, his usually deep voice sounding high and breathy.  Lestrade is still sucking John’s cock and cannot see what Sherlock is doing, but he hears the sound of spitting and then Sherlock’s mouth closes around him again.  He groans at the hot wet feeling, thrusting up a little as Sherlock continues sucking him.  A rhythmic wet sound fills the room as Sherlock works his own cock with his hand.

Sherlock sets a steady rhythm on Lestrade’s cock now, taking him in deep and sucking hard, and then pulling almost off with light pressure, over and over again.  At the same time, John tightens his hand in Lestrade’s hair and starts thrusting his cock in and out of his mouth, just a little bit, not too deep, in the same rhythm that Sherlock is using.  Lestrade holds himself still and maintains suction on John’s cock, giving himself up to the gentle thrusts.  His body is wracked with pleasure, from the amazing friction of John’s cock in his mouth to the incredible sensation of Sherlock’s mouth on his cock.  His body is shuddering and writhing between the two men, and he is moaning continuously.

“Oh God, yes, Greg, yes,” John grunts out above him.  “You look fucking amazing with your mouth around my cock.  So good, with Sherlock sucking you as you suck me.  Can you hear him jerking himself off as he sucks your cock?”  His words are hot and filthy, and Lestrade moans louder as he feels heat building and pooling in his abdomen, electricity running down his spine as his orgasm builds.

“Are you going to come for me, Greg?  I want to see it, want to see you come into Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth while you suck my cock.  Oh God Greg, do it, do it now.  Come for me.”  Lestrade is bucking up into Sherlock’s mouth as John talks, moaning around John’s cock in his mouth.  Suddenly Sherlock sucks Lestrade’s cock deep into his mouth and holds it there, swallowing around the length repeatedly, and then Lestrade is coming, arching up off the chair and almost shrieking as John continues to thrust into his mouth.

“Oh holy fuck, yes!” John calls out, thrusting into Lestrade’s mouth faster.  Sherlock continues to suck Lestrade through his orgasm, swallowing as he comes into his mouth, and then pulls his head back and lays it on Lestrade’s thigh, moaning steadily as he continues to jerk himself off.  Lestrade relaxes into the chair, feeling boneless as aftershocks from his orgasm rock his body, allowing John to use his mouth.

Within a few seconds, John pulls his cock out of Lestrade’s mouth.  He works himself with his hand a few times, head thrown back, grunting, and then comes explosively over Lestrade’s bare chest.  Lestrade watches, panting, bringing a hand up to wipe a trail of drool off of his mouth.  He hears Sherlock’s moans increasing in intensity and pitch, and Lestrade tears his eyes away from John to watch as Sherlock comes, kneeling at his feet with come dripping down his chin and staring avidly up at John’s cock.

As Sherlock finishes coming, he raises himself up on his knees, making eye contact with Lestrade, and leans over his chest.  Eyes still locked with Lestrade’s, he bends forward, extends his tongue, and starts to gently and carefully lap John’s come off of his chest.  Lestrade shivers and gasps, amazed to feel a fresh wave of lust pass through him at the sight.

John drops to his knees beside Sherlock, and as soon as he has finished cleaning Lestrade’s chest with his tongue, John pulls Sherlock into a passionate kiss.  Then both men collapse to the floor, slumping against the base of the chair beside Lestrade’s legs as all three work to catch their breath.  Lestrade leans forward, looking down so he can see their faces.

“That… was… bloody… amazing,” Lestrade pants, looking down at the two men at his feet.  Sherlock chuckles softly, while John looks back up at Lestrade with a happy grin.

“It was, wasn’t it?  But, Greg?  It gets _much_ better than that.”


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade slumps back in the chair again, still working to catch his breath, John’s words sparking a fresh shiver of anticipation through him.  He lets his head loll back against the chair, eyes unfocused, mind drifting in the afterglow of his orgasm.  At his feet John and Sherlock are still slumped against the base of the chair, heads leaning in toward each other, breathing deeply.  Out of the corner of his eye he sees John take Sherlock’s hand and bring it to his lips, planting gentle kisses across the knuckles.  Sherlock responds by nuzzling his head against John’s, humming softly.

Again Lestrade is struck by the obvious tenderness and love between the two men.  It seems so at odds with their typical public behavior, all barked orders on Sherlock’s part and exasperated eye-rolling on John’s.  He wonders briefly how many people have had the opportunity to see this side of their relationship, but that thought sends his mind along another path, and for the first time he questions his own role in this situation.  Have they done this before?  Is he special, or is this a regular thing for them?  Lestrade is not sure he wants to ask, not sure which answer would be the least upsetting for him.  He shifts in the chair, becoming aware of the sticky feeling on his chest, the ache in his back from slouching in the chair, the pressure against his legs where John and Sherlock are still leaning.  He draws a deep breath and exhales with a soft sigh before clearing his throat.

Just as Lestrade opens his mouth to break the silence, Sherlock leaps up from the floor, dark hair wild and eyes open wide.

“The acid!” he exclaims, rushing out of the room, still nude, without a backward glance.

Lestrade freezes, startled, before letting out a surprised involuntary laugh.  In front of him, John slowly climbs to his feet, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Daft bastard,” John says affectionately, turning to Lestrade.  “Oh, hold on, I’ll get a flannel,” he adds, taking in Lestrade’s awkward posture and uncomfortable shifting.  John turns and strides out of the room, snagging a plaid dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and belting it around himself as he disappears.  Lestrade watches him go, anxiety starting to rise again as his post-orgasmic high starts to fade.

John is back quickly, carrying a damp flannel in one hand.  He tosses it to Lestrade with a grin, who catches the cloth with a tight smile.

“Hey, still want some pie?  I could use a snack.  Oh, and some tea.”

“Umm… yeah, sure.  Pie sounds good.”  Lestrade wipes his sticky chest down with the flannel, wincing slightly at the touch of the cold moist cloth on his warm skin.  He stands quickly, still holding the flannel and shifting around under John’s gaze.  He feels unaccountably nervous about his own nudity, especially since John is wearing a dressing gown, and twists awkwardly in a futile attempt to conceal his groin from John’s gaze as he searches the floor for his discarded pants.

After a short time, he hears John snort out a little laugh.  “Honestly, I thought after all that you might be feeling a little less nervous.”  Lestrade looks up quickly at John’s comment, blushing, and then ducks his head again.  He still has not found his pants, and the embarrassment is creeping up his spine the longer he spends naked in Sherlock’s bedroom.  He cannot think of a good answer for John, so he just shrugs, ceasing his search and just standing motionless near the foot of the bed.

“Here,” John says.  When Lestrade looks up, John is holding out another dressing gown, this one a plain solid beige color.  He smiles self-consciously and reaches out to take the robe from John, but John pulls it back out of his reach before he can grab it.

Smiling wider at Lestrade’s half curious, half exasperated expression, John shakes the dressing gown out, holding it by the collar, and steps around behind Lestrade. 

“Let me,” John purrs softly into his ear, and Lestrade shivers, feeling a little frisson of arousal twist down his spine, an effective antidote to his embarrassment.  He holds his arms out and allows John to drape the fabric over his limbs.  John pulls the dressing gown up over his shoulders and then steps forward, pressing his chest against Lestrade’s back as he reaches around and drags his fingernails down the exposed skin of Lestrade’s chest.

“Hmmm,” Lestrade hums quietly, letting his head fall back a bit, until the side of his face rests against John’s hair.  John nuzzles against his head briefly.

“That’s better.”  John drops his arms and steps back away from Lestrade.

“Sorry,” Lestrade says, belting his dressing gown closed.  “I’m new to this, you know.  It’s still weird for me.  I’m not really sure how to act.”  He turns toward John, tipping his face down and then looking at John from the corner of his eye, feeling shy.

“Well, I have to say that overall, you’re doing well so far.”  John grins at him and then turns his eyes to the chair they have just vacated.  Lestrade follows his gaze.  When his eyes fall on the chair, his mind immediately flashes to the sensation of John’s cock in his mouth, and he flushes.

John chuckles quietly, and then steps forward until he is standing in front of Lestrade.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” John asks, reaching out and taking one of Lestrade’s hands softly in both of his.

“Yes,” Lestrade answers, voice quiet.  “Very much, actually.”

“Good,” John responds, looking down at Lestrade’s hand.  He turns it over, rubbing gently down the palm with both of his thumbs.  “Me, too.” 

John looks back up, his face wearing a gentle, open expression that causes Lestrade’s breath to catch in his chest.  John draws his lip between his teeth; combined with his expression, the gesture looks unsure and hesitant rather than sexy.  Without thinking, Lestrade leans forward and presses his mouth to John’s in a gentle kiss, his eyes fluttering shut.  John kisses back softly, parting his lips and sucking softly on Lestrade’s lower lip for a moment before breaking the kiss.

Lestrade opens his eyes to see John gazing back at him with a soft smile.  He smiles back, and as he watches, John’s smile deepens to a grin and his gaze sharpens.  The sudden change in his expression sends an anticipatory tingle down Lestrade’s spine, and he finds himself breathing faster.

John brings a hand up to grip Lestrade’s jaw firmly and steps forward until his mouth is hovering beside Lestrade’s cheek, lips brushing across his stubble.  Lestrade holds himself still, resists the urge to turn his face and capture John’s lips in another kiss.  He lets his eyes fall closed, enjoying the feeling of John’s fingers on his neck, John’s breath against his face.

“Sherlock enjoyed himself, too,” John says, voice rasping in his throat.  “I loved watching him suck you off.  It was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.”  Lestrade gasps as John continues.  “And I know you liked it too, didn’t you Greg?  You liked to see Sherlock on his knees, to see him crawl.  Didn’t you?”

John leans his head back a little bit, and his fingers tighten on Lestrade’s jaw as he waits for a response.  Lestrade squeezes his eyes shut tighter, frozen.  Images of Sherlock – kneeling, crawling, closing his beautiful lips around the head of Lestrade’s cock – cascade through his mind.  His breath quickens further as arousal twists in his stomach.

“Greg.  Tell me.”  John leans in again, bumps Lestrade’s cheek with his nose.

“God, yes,” Lestrade gasps out.  John makes a satisfied humming noise, and his fingers clench briefly on Lestrade’s jaw.

“Yes,” John echoes.  “And I’d like to see you push him harder.  Make him beg for your cock.”  His warm breath caresses the side of Lestrade’s face.

“Oh, fuck,” Lestrade breathes.

“He doesn’t surrender his control easily, I know you know that.  You’ll have to take it from him.  _Make_ him give in.”  John strokes his thumb down the side of Lestrade’s neck as he speaks, scratching lightly with the blunt nail.  “Can you imagine it, Greg?  Imagine how it feels to take control of Sherlock Holmes, to make him crawl for you, beg you for pleasure, for your touch?  It’s fucking incredible, I swear there’s nothing better.  Don’t you want to feel it?”

“I… yes, God, I want that.  I want to make him beg.”  Lestrade keeps his eyes squeezed closed as he admits this, feeling unaccountably ashamed of it even through the increasing pulses of arousal John’s words are triggering in him.

“Good,” John responds immediately, sounding satisfied.  He licks a soft path up Lestrade’s throat beneath his hand, and then blows softly across the wet skin.  Lestrade shivers.  “Don’t be afraid to take what you want, then.  Force him to surrender.  It’s what he wants, you know.  It’s what he _needs_.  And I want to see it.”

“Fuck, yes, ok,” Lestrade says, shivering again at the dark, needy tone in John’s voice.

“Right then.  Let’s go have tea and pud.”  John’s voice is suddenly loud and cheerful again.  Lestrade finally opens his eyes as John’s hand drops from his jaw.  Before he can respond to John’s comment or turn his head, he feels John’s hand connect sharply against one of his arse cheeks with a loud _slap_.

“Oi!” he exclaims, fighting the urge to smile as he turns to see John moving toward the door.

“Come on!” John says, throwing a cheeky grin over his shoulder as he leaves the room.  Lestrade gives up and smiles back, following John to the kitchen, all embarrassment at the situation forgotten.

In the kitchen, they find Sherlock, still naked, sitting on a stool looking into his microscope, which has been returned to the table.  Beside the microscope sit several beakers, one of which is emitting visible fumes and a low hissing noise, and a loose pile of papers covered in Sherlock’s messy scrawl.  On the other side is a plate containing half of what was once a large slice of banoffee pie.  Sherlock does not look up or acknowledge their presence in the kitchen, but as Lestrade watches he grabs his fork without looking and scoops a heaping bite of pie into his mouth, moaning softly as he chews and swallows.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” John mumbles, and leaves the room back the way they came.  Lestrade stays where he is for a moment, content to watch Sherlock eat pie, before deciding that he should probably be helpful.  He crosses the kitchen, picks up the electric kettle, and adds water before switching it on.

John comes back into the room holding a red, silky-looking dressing gown, and drapes it over Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sherlock grunts an inarticulate response and pulls the robe further up his neck without putting his arms through the sleeves.  John rolls his eyes and shrugs to himself before joining Lestrade on the other side of the room.

“Oh, you got the kettle.  Ta,” John says, leaning past Lestrade to pull open a cupboard from which he withdraws two mugs.  Lestrade smiles in reply and leans back against the kitchen counter, watching as John gathers the tea bags and moves to place them in the mugs.

Across the kitchen, Sherlock moans again, and Lestrade’s eyes jump up in time to see him lowering the fork back to his plate.

“Don’t mind him.  He always does that when he eats banoffee pie.”  John’s voice is tinged with amusement, and when he looks down, Lestrade sees the same amusement reflected in his expression.

“What, always?”

“Oh yes, every single time.  I’m not sure he even knows he’s doing it, usually.  You should see the looks we get when he has banoffee pie on the rare occasion that he deigns to eat in public.”

Lestrade cannot stop the wide grin that rises on his face at that mental image.

“Honestly,” he replies, “if I was sitting across from _that_ ,” and he nods his head toward Sherlock and the pie, “I don’t think I’d even notice other people.”

“I know what you mean,” John laughs lightly.  “The first time, I almost fell out of my chair.”  Both men chuckle.  Sherlock, still looking into his microscope, does not appear to notice.

“So, it wasn’t just for my benefit then?  Earlier, I mean?” Lestrade asks, indicating the pie, now more than half gone, sitting in its box on the counter.

“Well, I may have cheated a little,” John answers.  “I got the pie on purpose, because I knew how Sherlock looks when he eats it.  And I think he played it up a little bit for you.”

Across the room, Lestrade sees Sherlock’s lips quirk up in a quick smirk, although he does not move from his position in front of the microscope.  Lestrade finds himself feeling a little bit flattered at the idea that Sherlock might have gone out of his way to be sexy for him.

The men fall quiet as John pours the tea and carefully serves up two small slices of pie.  He passes a plate and a mug to Lestrade, and they move into the living room, sitting side by side on the sofa and setting their dishes on the coffee table.

“Well, looks like that’s it for the kitchen table for a while,” John says ruefully.  “I’ll probably get to use it for food again in about a month.”

“It was nice while it lasted,” Lestrade says, grinning as he scoops up a large bite of pie.

John grunts in response, mouth already full, and clicks on the television.  The two men sit on the sofa, steadily demolishing their pie in companionable silence and watching telly.  Lestrade feels comfortable, at home, like this is something he could be doing any night of the week with John, aside from the fact that they are naked but for dressing gowns and he can still feel the tacky sensation of drying semen pulling tight across the skin of his chest.

The strangeness of the situation suddenly strikes Lestrade hard and he cannot help but laugh out loud.  John turns to look, one eyebrow raised and a small smile on his own face.

“I’m sorry, this is just so weird,” Lestrade manages to squeeze out before dissolving into giggles again, raising a hand to gesture between himself and John.  John watches him, still smiling, and gives a little shrug.

“You get used to it.”

The comment sobers Lestrade up immediately, and he turns back to the telly, giggles drying up like water spilled on desert sand.  He finds himself wondering what exactly John meant by that, how often John and Sherlock do things like this, whether he is just one in a string of men they have taken home and shagged for a night.  What will they do later, tomorrow, next week?  Will they want to do this again, or will they be done with him?

Oh God, does he want to do this again?

The answer to that question fills his mind almost as soon as he thinks it, and it is an instant, unequivocal _Yes_.  He wants to do this again, wants more of John’s casual company and quiet powerful dominance, more of Sherlock’s intense focus and sudden unexpected submission.  He wants to see Sherlock lose control, begging for more, for whatever Lestrade will give him, and he wants to see John getting off on watching him exert control.  The incredible taste of experience they have given him so far has only whetted his appetite for more.

But what if they do not want it?  John’s earlier comment suggested that there was more to be had, to be done, but what then?  What will happen after tonight? Will there be other nights like this, alternating easily between quiet companionship and crazy intense sex?  Or will they be done with this, with him, once it is out of their system?

Lestrade is not sure what he will do if John and Sherlock are done with him.

Across the room, the shrill sound of a mobile rings out, startling Lestrade out of his moment of nervous contemplation.  John jumps to his feet and moves quickly toward the desk.  After a short frantic search through the stacks of papers, he pulls out a mobile and checks the caller ID.  He curses at what he sees and thumbs the phone on, bringing it to his ear.

“Hello.”

Even from across the room on the sofa, Lestrade can hear the loud burst of sound that blasts out of the phone as John answers it.  John winces, moving the phone away from his ear, and shouts into the mouthpiece.

“Harry?  Is that you?”  Another blast of noise comes through.  John grits his teeth.  “What?  Look, Harry, I can’t hear you.  Go outside, or something.”  He starts pacing around the living room, holding the phone to one ear and plugging his other ear with a finger.  “Oh, God, hang on.”

John drops the phone and presses the mouthpiece against the palm of his hand, although Lestrade is willing to bet that whoever is on the other end would not be able to hear anything regardless.  He looks apologetically at Lestrade.

“My sister, sorry.  I have to take this.  I’ll be back in a sec.”  Then he turns and trots up the stairs toward his room.

With John out of the room, Lestrade immediately sinks back into the anxiety that is creeping through his brain.  How had he managed to get so attached so quickly?  Was he really so starved for touch, for affection?  He knew, _knew_ that doing this would change their relationship, but he went ahead and did it anyway, just jumped in dick-first like a horny teenage boy.  God, maybe Sherlock has been right all this time.  Maybe he really is an idiot.

He brings a hand up and rubs his forehead hard with his fingertips.  Shit, maybe it would just be best to end this now, before he manages to get truly emotionally invested.  It would be hard to walk away now, but it might be worth it, if it saves him the pain of rejection later.  He unconsciously pulls the dressing gown tighter around his body as he steels himself to get up and find his clothes.

“Shut up.”

Lestrade jumps, his eyes darting to the kitchen, and he sees Sherlock leaning casually against the wall in the throughway between the two rooms.  He still has the red dressing gown draped over his body like a blanket, sleeves hanging empty from his shoulders, and he is holding it closed in front of him from inside with his hand.  The overall effect, that of a child clutching a blanket around their shoulders for warmth, gives him the appearance of being much younger than he is, innocent and naïve.  Lestrade feels his breath stutter as he inhales.

“I wasn’t talking,” Lestrade answers, once he catches his breath.

“I could hear you thinking all the way over here.  Stop it, it’s annoying,” Sherlock responds in the same tone he usually uses to berate Lestrade at crime scenes.

“Oh, right,” Lestrade says, suddenly tired.  “Sorry.  But look, it’s getting late.  I should probably head home, get out of your hair…”  He trails off, confused by the look on Sherlock’s face.  Because Sherlock is smiling at him, a genuine smile, not a smirk or a false grin for the sake of getting information, but a real expression of happiness.  Lestrade has only ever seen that particular expression directed at John before, and he does not know what to do with it now.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, his tone much softer now, belying his sharp words.  “There’s no reason for you to leave.”

Lestrade swallows, his throat unaccountably going dry at Sherlock’s words, his gentle tone.  He opens his mouth to argue, but stops and loses his breath entirely when, standing directly in front of him, Sherlock lets go of the two halves of the dressing gown and allows them to fall, parting to frame his naked form in deep red silk.

“We would very much like you to stay, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, his voice a low rumbling purr as he steps forward toward where Lestrade is sitting on the sofa.  “I know you don’t have to work tomorrow, and Mrs. Hudson will be gone for the entire weekend.  We have all the time in the world, and we can be as loud as we want.”  Sherlock continues to stalk forward as he speaks, and Lestrade stands up quickly as Sherlock approaches him.  Sherlock stops in front of him, far enough away that Lestrade can still see his beautiful naked body just by slightly tilting his head downward, and then leans forward, bringing his mouth closer to Lestrade’s ear.

“And there is still so much I would like to do,” he purrs, his breath hot on Lestrade’s neck.

Lestrade goes still, the arousal rising in him and completely destroying his will to walk away.  He meets Sherlock’s gaze, studying his face and allowing Sherlock to examine his own.  The naked desire he can see in Sherlock’s expression sparks something in his brain, and all at once he is possessed with the overwhelming need to taste his skin.  He lets the feeling drift across his face, makes no effort to shutter his expression, and is rewarded by the slight widening of Sherlock’s eyes and a tiny gasp of breath as Sherlock sees the need, the intention in his expression.

“God, Lestrade,” Sherlock gasps out, and then Lestrade is grabbing him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s slim body and the ridiculously draped dressing gown and crushing Sherlock to him.  Sherlock has time to get one arm out of the gown, wrapping it around Lestrade’s shoulders and clutching, before Lestrade is pulling his head down and crushing their mouths together.

They kiss, desperate and hard and frantic, and Lestrade is not sure what has come over him.  He just knows that he needs to feel Sherlock, to taste him, to mark him, that he might lose his mind if he cannot.  He brings one hand up and scrapes his fingernails hard down Sherlock’s silk-encased back, feeling the fabric catch and slip and give beneath his fingers as he scratches.  Sherlock gives a weak shuddery little moan into his mouth at the feeling, and his need to taste, to bite that flawless skin surges up hard.

Lestrade grabs Sherlock tightly and spins him until Sherlock’s back is toward the sofa.  Then he pushes him, hard.  With his arms constricted by the dressing gown and Lestrade’s grip, Sherlock can do nothing to stop his fall, and he goes crashing backward into the sofa with force, grunting as he lands.  Lestrade kneels beside him instantly, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders, twisting him until he can lie across the sofa and then pushing him down until his back is pressed into the cushions.

Quickly, not waiting to see Sherlock’s reaction to the shove, Lestrade threads the fingers of one hand through those dark tangles and jerks Sherlock’s head back, baring his pale throat, still marked from John earlier.  Then he pauses, just for a moment, to gaze down at his prize.

Sherlock is stretched out across the sofa, back arching and neck extended as far as it can go.  He is panting, some of his rapid breaths catching in his throat and coming out as soft whimpers and grunts.  Lestrade looks at his neck, at the line of bruises running down the pale column of his throat, and his mouth floods with saliva.  He leans forward, slowly, and licks a trail up the opposite unmarked side of Sherlock’s neck, eliciting a louder whimper from the other man.

“God, you’re delicious,” Lestrade says into Sherlock’s skin, feeling almost breathless.  Then he bites down hard on the soft white skin below his mouth and sucks, pulling it between his teeth and working it with his tongue.  Beneath him, Sherlock moans his approval, voice breaking as Lestrade bites down harder before letting go and leaning back to admire his work.  Sherlock’s neck now sports a dark bruise on the other side, matching the ones from earlier.  Lestrade grins at it and leans back in for another go, sucking firmly on Sherlock’s neck and drinking in his gasps and groans.

Suddenly Lestrade feels a hand grip tight in his hair, pulling his head back harshly.  The skin of Sherlock’s neck slides slowly from between his teeth as his head is drawn back, and Sherlock emits a long, deep moan.  Lestrade growls.

“Bedroom.  Now,” John pants into his ear, voice gravelly with arousal.  John tugs even harder on his hair for a moment before releasing him with a light push in the direction of the hallway leading to the bedroom.  Lestrade climbs to his feet from his kneeling position beside the sofa, feeling somewhat unsteady, and takes a step backward, still looking down.  In front of him Sherlock lies on the sofa, on his back, red dressing gown spread wide open and framing his lean pale form.  His limbs are sprawled out haphazardly, one arm and leg drooping down, hand and foot resting on the floor, one knee bent with his foot braced on a cushion, one arm resting along the back of the sofa.  His back is slightly arched, pushing his chest up, and his head is thrown back, baring his long neck, now marked down both sides with dark purple bruises.  His skin glows creamy white in the soft incandescent light, contrasting with the rich darkness of the fabric beneath him.   He looks almost holy, like a sacrifice, and so remarkably beautiful that for a moment Lestrade feels a prickling sensation behind his eyes.  He lets his breath out in a rush and takes another step back, seeing John step up beside him from the corner of his eye.

“I know,” John says in a soft voice, looking down at Sherlock.  Lestrade glances at him, and John looks back, his expression  gentle.  “So fucking beautiful.  I know.”  He steps forward and kneels beside the sofa, taking the position that Lestrade held a moment before, and leans down, his face just above Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock, love, come to the bedroom,” he murmurs.  Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John, his expression solemn.  John brings his hand up and caresses Sherlock’s neck softly.  “So beautiful,” John says again.  His hand stills on Sherlock’s neck, and he leans in closer, speaking directly into Sherlock’s ear.  “I want you, Sherlock.  I need you.  We need you.”  His hand caresses the length of Sherlock’s throat once more, from the base of his neck to just beneath his jaw, and there John grips, hard.  Lestrade can see his fingers sinking into the skin of Sherlock’s neck as he squeezes.  Sherlock’s eyes close and his mouth falls open, but otherwise he does not move.  “Come into the bedroom with us, Sherlock,” John continues, his voice low and smooth.  “We’re going to take you, make you moan, make you scream, make you beg.  Mmm, yes.”  John closes his eyes.  Beneath his hand, Sherlock starts to move, rolling his hips, arching his back further.  “We’re going to touch you, lick you, bite you, hurt you, just a little bit, just _enough_ ,” and here Sherlock lets out a high-pitched whine, arching all the way up off the sofa.  “And you’re going to fucking _love_ it, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

John opens his eyes and slowly releases his grip on Sherlock’s throat.  Beneath him, Sherlock gasps in a breath and starts to pant, collapsing back down onto the sofa.  His eyes open and he looks up.

“Yes, John.”

John nods once and stands up, turning his back on Sherlock and facing Lestrade.  Their eyes meet, and Lestrade knows that the naked lust he feels is visible on his face.  John stares into his eyes and jerks his head toward the bedroom.

“Let’s go.”

Lestrade goes.  He moves quickly past the kitchen, down the hall, and back into the bedroom they had left earlier.  The bedside lamp is still on, the bed still made; the only indicators of the activity this room had seen earlier are the random piles of clothes scattered around the floor.  Lestrade unties his dressing gown and carefully lays it over the back of the chair in the corner, and then takes a moment while he is alone in the room to draw a deep breath and attempt to calm himself.  John’s words from earlier still ring in his ears.  He wants to heed John’s advice, to take control from Sherlock, and he knows that he will not be able to while he is still feeling this intense reverence at even the thought of Sherlock spread out before him.  He closes his eyes and straightens his spine as he hears the two men come into the room behind him.

Lestrade waits until he hears them approach before turning.  He looks first to John, who is standing behind and slightly to the side of Sherlock, his own dressing gown clutched in one hand.  Lestrade makes eye contact, smiling, and then lets his eyes slide across to Sherlock, smile deepening.  As he does, he sees John smirk.  Sherlock stands calmly, returning his own smile as Lestrade looks at him.

Lestrade waits, does not move, making eye contact with Sherlock and grinning, allowing the lust he feels to show on his face again.  After several seconds, he lets his eyes drift downward, slowly examining every inch of Sherlock’s naked body.  His eyes linger on Sherlock’s nipples, his abdomen, his erect cock – and here Lestrade licks his lips, though he is unaware of it – his thighs, his bare feet.  Eventually he drags his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face and sees a light blush staining the porcelain skin, notes that Sherlock is breathing slightly faster.  He looks into Sherlock’s eyes again, and this time Sherlock drops his gaze almost immediately, blush intensifying.

Lestrade grins and steps forward.  He brings a hand up to Sherlock’s face, forcing the detective’s eyes back up to meet his.  He leans in until his face is just centimeters from Sherlock’s, feeling satisfied as Sherlock’s lips part and his breath ghosts across Lestrade’s cheek.

“You really are gorgeous,” Lestrade says softly.  Sherlock startles, his head jerking back slightly in Lestrade’s palm, mouth closing suddenly.  He looks surprised at Lestrade’s statement, like he was expecting something else, and he also looks like he is about to comment, so Lestrade drags his thumb across Sherlock’s plump lower lip and then brings their lips together quickly so that he does not have a chance to speak.

He is surprised when Sherlock allows the gentle kiss, does not resist or draw back.  He presses their lips more firmly together before allowing his to part slightly and drawing Sherlock’s lower lip between his, sucking softly.  Sherlock makes a small noise and kisses back, moving his lips with Lestrade’s.  He leans forward, attempting to push Lestrade’s head back with his superior height, but Lestrade resists.  Instead, he slides his hand along the side of Sherlock’s face and into his hair.  He immediately tightens his grip and uses it to pull Sherlock’s head back and to the side.  At the same time he drags his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip and then pushes it hard into his hot mouth.

Sherlock moans again, louder, and goes docile, submitting to Lestrade’s mouth and allowing him to guide the kiss.  The thrill of power that jolts through Lestrade’s body at Sherlock’s acquiescence shocks him, but he cannot deny it.  He moans into Sherlock’s mouth and steps forward again, pressing the length of his body against Sherlock’s while pulling harder on his hair, deepening the kiss and allowing his tongue to explore the detective’s mouth.  He brings his other hand up to cup Sherlock’s face, and then runs his hand downward, first along that pale length of neck and then across the breadth of a shoulder and around to the smooth back.  His hand drifts lower as he continues to thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, until his palm cups the round, firm curve of Sherlock’s glorious arse.

Lestrade squeezes, gently at first, reveling in the feeling the tight flesh in his hand.  Tightening his grip, his fingers sink into the soft skin as he pulls Sherlock hard against him, grinding their erections together.  He draws his tongue out of Sherlock’s mouth, pulls back to take a breath, and then uses his tight grip in Sherlock’s hair to jerk his head to the side, lowering his mouth to bite down on Sherlock’s ear.  He thrusts his hips forward over and over while holding Sherlock’s arse tight against him, humping against Sherlock’s hard cock while ruthlessly tonguing and biting his ear.  Sherlock writhes against him, gasping and moaning, and Lestrade feels another sharp thrill of power as he holds the taut squirming body tight.

Suddenly Sherlock’s entire body jerks against Lestrade’s, his head arching back and causing Lestrade’s hand to yank hard in his hair, breath escaping him in a high whine.  Lestrade pulls his own head back, dragging Sherlock’s earlobe slowly through his teeth before releasing his grip, and opens his eyes to see John standing just behind Sherlock.  John’s eyes are heavy-lidded, half-closed with lust, and his gaze is directed low, staring at Lestrade’s hand still griping Sherlock’s lush arse.  Lestrade’s mind is so clouded with lust that it takes him a moment to realize that John is stroking Sherlock’s arse with his fingers, slowly dragging his fingertips up and down the cleft.  Then, John tears his eyes away from what his fingers are doing and meets Lestrade’s heated gaze.

“Don’t stop,” John breathes softly.  Lestrade’s stomach tightens with pleasure at the sound, and he snaps his head forward to sink his teeth into Sherlock’s neck, while renewing his forceful thrusts against Sherlock’s erection.  Sherlock moans deeply at the contact, his breath blowing softly across Lestrade’s neck and bringing up goose bumps across his shoulder.  Lestrade keeps his eyes open as he bites and sucks on Sherlock’s throat, looking directly into John’s eyes while thrusting and grinding against Sherlock’s hard cock.

Lestrade releases his grip in Sherlock’s hair, allowing his head to flop forward over Lestrade’s shoulder.  He brings his hand down, softly caressing Sherlock’s flank, and reaches around to grab another handful of that fantastic arse.  The two-handed grip gives him more leverage, and he pulls Sherlock tighter against him, dragging his erection against Sherlock’s in long slow strokes, eliciting an almost pained whimper from the detective.  Behind Sherlock, John steps forward and presses himself against Sherlock’s back, grinding against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse where Lestrade has pulled the twin globes apart.  Lestrade feels John’s hands work around Sherlock’s ribs and insinuate themselves between their chests.  John’s fingers find Sherlock’s nipples and he pinches, hard.

Lestrade keeps up his assault, squeezing Sherlock’s arse with both hands while roughly rutting against him, biting and sucking on his neck.  John is thrusting up against Sherlock’s arse rhythmically while ruthlessly squeezing his nipples, placing long sucking kisses across the top of his back.  Trapped between the two men, Sherlock writhes, moans and whimpers pouring from his throat continuously.  Every helpless little sound that escapes from Sherlock’s mouth goes straight to Lestrade’s cock, the thrill of pleasure pulling and tightening in his groin as he pulls Sherlock against him over and over.

Suddenly Lestrade realizes that he is right on the edge of coming, just from this, just from dry-humping Sherlock.  He quickly lets go of Sherlock’s amazing arse and starts to draw back, but Sherlock immediately brings his hands up from where they have been hanging at his sides and grabs tight onto Lestrade’s shoulders, pulling him forward and groaning, trying to bring their erections back into contact.  Lestrade, captivated by Sherlock’s loss of control, grabs his hips and bucks against him once, twice, three times with a deep grunt and then steps back again.  This time he resists when Sherlock tries to pull him back.  He sees John step back as well, and Sherlock seems to sag a little without the two of them to hold him up.  His eyes are still tightly shut, and his breathing is fast and harsh.

“Sherlock, get on the bed,” John says softly.  His voice is smooth and controlled and his breathing is regular, in stark contrast to Lestrade and Sherlock.  Sherlock shudders at the words and climbs onto the bed, sinking down onto his back and resting his head on a pillow.  His face wears a glowing expression of contentment and desire.  John smiles just a little at this and shakes his head.  “No no, get on your hands and knees.”


	7. Chapter 7

The gentle expression slides immediately off of Sherlock’s face, to be replaced by something darker, something _hungry_.  He scrambles up with almost comical haste, coming to rest on his hands and knees crosswise on the bed, with his head hanging low, dark curls concealing his face from Lestrade and John.  And there he remains, motionless, waiting.  Sherlock’s breathing is audible even from where Lestrade is standing, and he finds himself breathing in time, arousal washing through him.

John steps around to stand in front of Lestrade, breaking his view of Sherlock.  He leans in close, his breath warm against Lestrade’s neck, and runs his hands softly down Lestrade’s chest and across his belly.  John’s fingertips graze across the tip of his cock and he thrusts his hips up, unconsciously seeking more friction.  John huffs out a soft, amused sound at this and runs his fingers softly up the length of Lestrade’s erection from balls to tip.  At the same time, he leans in until his mouth is just grazing the skin of Lestrade’s neck, right below his ear.

“I’m going to fuck him,” he says, voice low and warm against Lestrade’s throat.

“Oh Jesus,” Lestrade chokes out, the words startled out of him, his cock pulsing with want.

“I’m going to bend him over, spread his fucking beautiful arse open, shove my cock inside him, and pound him over and over until he’s screaming my name.” John’s hand closes around Lestrade’s cock as he talks, and he strokes slowly, softly, up and down the length as he continues.  “And I want you to watch.  I want to look into your eyes while I’m fucking Sherlock, watch you watching us.  I want to see you getting off on it.  God, I can’t wait.”  John’s head drops until his forehead is pressed against Lestrade’s shoulder and he steps forward, rutting against Lestrade’s thigh as he continues to stroke his cock.  Lestrade leans into John’s thrusts, his strokes, biting his lower lip and stifling a moan.

After a few deep breaths, John steps back again – far enough that Lestrade can see his face; eyes heavy-lidded and dark, lips glistening with saliva.  His hand falls off of Lestrade’s cock, and he brings it up to gently cup Lestrade’s cheek instead.

“But first, Greg, I want to watch you to prepare him for me.”

Lestrade’s eyes open wide and his mouth drops open at these words.  _Oh holy fuck!_ His eyes flick up past John’s shoulder to look at Sherlock where he is waiting on the bed.  He has lifted his head and is watching the two of them, hungry expression still on his face.  When Lestrade’s startled gaze meets his, Sherlock opens his own eyes wider and licks his lips.  Then he drops his head again, rolling his neck forward.  He continues the motion through his shoulders and down his torso, the entire length of his lithe form undulating as he kneels on the bed. He spreads his knees wider and waits, his head still down but tipped to the side, watching Lestrade out of the corner of his eye.

Lestrade licks his own lips, his eyes travelling along Sherlock’s body, and then returns his gaze to John.  He swallows once, hard.

“You’ll have to show me how,” he finally answers, pleased that his voice is level despite the pounding of his heart.  John smiles happily, still looking into his eyes.

“Oh yes, I plan to,” John says, and his smile shifts into something salacious and dark.  He leans forward, moving his hand around to the back of Lestrade’s neck, and pulls him in until their mouths are close, nearly touching.  “You are so fucking sexy,” John breaths out against his mouth, and then he stretches up and brings his lips softly against Lestrade’s.

This kiss is different from their earlier one, gentle and almost sweet.  John caresses Lestrade’s lips with his own before dragging his tongue softly across the seam of Lestrade’s mouth, silently asking for entrance.  Lestrade parts his lips and allows John to push his tongue inside, gently exploring Lestrade’s mouth with teasing little thrusts.  Lestrade brings his own tongue up to catch John’s on one thrust, and suddenly the kiss deepens, both men opening their mouths wider and pushing their tongues against one another in long, slow strokes.  Lestrade moans into John’s mouth as their tongues slide together slickly, getting lost in the sensation of it.  He steps closer, pushing his body against John’s, and brings his hands up to hold both sides of the doctor’s head, tilting his own to the side and taking control of the kiss.  He pushes his tongue into John’s mouth, exploring the depths slowly, and then pulls back, breaking the connection between their lips.  John leans forward, mouth open, following his retreat, and Lestrade brings their mouths together again, brushing his lips against John’s without allowing them to seal together.  He flicks his tongue into John’s mouth, their lips just grazing each other, and caresses John’s tongue with his, their breath flowing hot in the shared space between their mouths.  John groans loudly and surges forward, catching Lestrade’s mouth again and crashing their lips together hard in a bruising kiss, while Lestrade thrusts his tongue powerfully into John’s mouth over and over.  The kiss continues for a short time before John drops back, breaking the connection, panting.

“Fuck,” he says, shaking his head and looking a bit dazed.  Lestrade looks down at him, smirking just a little at John’s loss of composure.  John smirks back, looking into Lestrade’s eyes.  Then a high-pitched sound startles them both out of their reverie.  Lestrade jerks his eyes up to where Sherlock is still waiting on the bed on his hands and knees.  He is watching the two men with a longing expression, and Lestrade realizes that Sherlock is _whining_.  John’s smirk deepens.

“Just can’t wait, can you?” John asks with a laugh as he turns to Sherlock.  He walks across the room and stops at the edge of the bed just in front of Sherlock’s face.  “I was just asking Greg if he would mind shoving his fingers into your tight arse,” he says in a cheerful voice, leaning down to look into Sherlock’s eyes.  Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes flick quickly to Lestrade and then back to John.  “How does that sound, Sherlock?  Would you like Greg to finger-fuck you?” John’s voice deepens and roughens as he speaks.  “Would you like to feel him inside you?  Spreading you open, getting you ready for my cock?  Do you want him to see you bucking and moaning like a whore while he pushes his fingers in and out of your arse?”  Sherlock’s eyes have fallen shut as John speaks and his hips are rocking up and down rhythmically.  Lestrade, still standing where John left him, is fighting to control his breathing as he listens to John’s filthy words.  Arousal is pooling tight and heavy in his stomach, and his heart is thumping in his chest.

John falls silent, and the room is filled with the sound of Sherlock’s soft panting.  The quiet stretches out, and neither John nor Lestrade moves.  Finally, Sherlock’s eyes open and he looks up at John.

“I…yes, John,” he says softly.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I… I want Lestrade to finger my arse.”  Sherlock blushes as he speaks, and Lestrade has to lock his knees to keep himself upright at the wave of desire that crashes through him at the sight.  He concentrates hard on staying calm, looking composed, and breathing slowly.

“Don’t tell me that,” John says admonishingly, “tell him.  Tell Greg what you want.  Tell him you want him to make you moan like a whore.”  Sherlock moans just a little at John’s words.  Between his spread thighs, his cock hangs full and heavy, beads of precome gathering at the tip. 

“God,” Sherlock chokes out quietly, mostly to himself.  His eyes seek Lestrade’s, and he licks his lips.  “Lestrade, I want you to finger me, to shove your fingers in my arse and fuck me with your hand.  Will you?”  His voice is soft and breathy as he speaks.

The words, the tone, the fucking expression on Sherlock’s face as he speaks, send a rush of white hot fire racing through Lestrade’s body.  The raw desire that jolts him almost brings him to his knees right there on the carpet.  But despite this, despite the force of the arousal coursing through him, Lestrade does not move.  He has one more thing to do before he can allow himself to succumb to the desire filling him.  Working as hard as he ever has to keep himself under control, he manages to prevent his reaction from showing in his body language; instead, he draws himself up slightly, lifts an eyebrow, and looks down at Sherlock with a carefully neutral expression.

“Ask me nicely.”

At these words Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and his whole body shudders.  He moans aloud and then starts panting audibly again; short, sharp little inhales and exhales, clearly fighting to stay in control of himself.  His hips flex up and down several times, and strings of precome drip from the tip of his hard cock.  _He looks like he’s about to come, completely untouched.  Holy shit!_   John watches ravenously, his own breathing escalating at Sherlock’s loss of control.  Lestrade waits, fighting to maintain his dispassionate expression while his own cock throbs with need.

John steps away and moves around the bed to stand behind Sherlock’s arse, watching Lestrade over Sherlock’s bare back.  Lestrade steps up closer to the bed and waits.

“Oh God, fuck,” Sherlock finally murmurs.  His eyes open again and he looks up at Lestrade, craning his neck in order to see him.  “Please, Lestrade, finger my arse.”  Sherlock blushes again and drops his head, looking down at the duvet beneath his hands.  Suddenly John smacks his arse, hard, the resounding crack echoing through the quiet of the bedroom.

“Open your eyes and look at him while you beg,” John hisses.  Sherlock bucks and lets out a high-pitched keening sound, immediately bringing his head up and making eye contact with Lestrade again.

“Oh fuck, please, shove your fingers up my arse.  Spread me open, make me moan, make me scream, oh God, oh please, I want it I want it please….”  Lestrade leans forward and grabs Sherlock by the hair, wrenching his head back at an uncomfortable angle, stretching that long neck out as far as it can go.  Sherlock falls silent, unable to speak anymore, and Lestrade leans down until his lips are just grazing Sherlock’s.

“Good boy,” Lestrade says, his voice a rough purr, and with that he brings his lips crashing down on Sherlock’s, kissing him roughly and thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth, fucking him with his tongue.  Sherlock whines into the kiss, submitting, twisting to bring his head back further, to give Lestrade more access to his mouth.  Lestrade continues the kiss for several more thrusts before pulling away hard and straightening up, dropping Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock’s elbows give out and his upper body collapses down onto the bed, knees still bent and arse in the air, as Lestrade catches his breath.

“Oh, that’s perfect, stay just like that,” John says, leaning forward and softly running his hand down Sherlock’s back.  After a moment, Lestrade walks around the bed to stand beside John, looking down at the enticing view Sherlock is presenting.  He reaches out and joins John in running his hands along the expanse of Sherlock’s back, admiring the contrast between John’s golden tan, his own work-roughened hands, and Sherlock’s porcelain skin.  Beneath their hands, Sherlock arches his back and stretches, humming softly.

“Here, give me your hand,” John murmurs into Lestrade’s ear, taking him gently by the wrist.  He brings Lestrade’s hand up to his face and sucks two fingers into his mouth, tongue twisting around and between the digits as he sucks.  Lestrade’s mouth falls slack, eyes locked with John’s, as every touch of that tongue sends pleasure jolting straight to his cock.  After a few moments, John slowly draws the fingers out of his mouth and looks away, reaching for the nightstand beside the bed him and producing a small bottle with a flip top.

“Here, use a lot of lube,” John says, tossing him the bottle.  Lestrade catches the bottle and looks down at it and then back at John, confusion evident on his face.

“Then why did you…?” Lestrade gestures toward John’s mouth with his wet hand before flipping the top and following John’s instructions.

 “Oh, that was just for me,” John answers, grinning cheekily.  The look is infectious, and Lestrade finds himself grinning back happily.  Beside them on the bed, Sherlock wiggles just a little bit, clearly getting impatient again.

John glances at Sherlock and then brings his eyes back to Lestrade without moving his head.  His smile deepens a bit and he silently mouths “Ready?” to Lestrade, who draws in a deep breath and nods slightly.  John gently takes his wrist again and brings his hand toward Sherlock.

“Start with one,” he says softly, guiding Lestrade’s hand down to Sherlock’s tight pucker.  As Lestrade’s fingers touch skin, John releases his hand.  Lestrade bites his lip unconsciously; concentrating hard on being careful, on doing this right, as he leans forward just a bit so he can see clearly.  Then he gently slides his finger into Sherlock’s arse.

Below him, Sherlock gasps at the sensation and wriggles slightly, exhaling a low moan.  Beside him, John grunts quietly, breathing faster.  But Lestrade’s attention is focused entirely on the sensations of his finger sliding easily into Sherlock’s tight passage.  The slick wet heat of it is like nothing he has ever felt in his life, snugly squeezing his finger on all sides, soft like velvet, hot as sin.  He does not even hear the moan that escapes his mouth as he pushes his finger into Sherlock’s arse as far as it can go.

“Now move it in and out, slowly,” John breathes into his ear, voice breaking with arousal.  Lestrade pulls his finger nearly all the way out, just the tip still being squeezed by the tight ring of muscle at Sherlock’s entrance, and then slowly slides his finger back into the velvet passage.  Sherlock is whimpering, pushing his face down into the duvet, the muscles of his back straining as he holds himself still.  Lestrade licks his lips and repeats the gesture, watching Sherlock twitch.  Beside him, John is panting audibly.

“Faster,” John whispers, and Lestrade speeds up his thrusts, fucking him with his finger.  Sherlock’s whimpers increase in volume, and he starts rocking back softly in time with Lestrade’s motions.  It suddenly occurs to Lestrade to imagine what this would feel like on his cock instead of his finger – the tight throbbing heat of it encircling him as he thrusts hard into that lush arse – and he moans loudly, increasing his pace further.

“Oh, oh fuck,” Sherlock gasps out, voice muffled against the bed.  “Lestrade, yes, God, more, please more.”  Lestrade groans, cock throbbing at the words, and looks to John.

“Two fingers now,” John says.  Lestrade pulls out and then pushes in with two fingers, closing his eyes and reveling in the feel of the tight squeeze of the ring of muscle along his fingers.  He starts faster this time, fucking Sherlock’s arse with his fingers, drinking in the helpless sounds Sherlock is making and the feel of John’s panting breath on his shoulder.  His cock is aching with need, precome beading at the tip and dripping down the head as he loses himself in the heady sensations.  Suddenly he feels a touch on his wrist.  He opens his eyes and turns to John, who is looking back at him with undisguised lust.

“Now, let me show you a trick,” John says with a feral grin.  He takes Lestrade’s wrist and rotates his hand slowly, until Lestrade’s palm is facing downward, fingers still buried deep in Sherlock’s arse.  “Curl your fingers just a little,” John whispers against the side of his face.  Lestrade does.  John pushes Lestrade’s wrist forward slowly, gently forcing his fingers in deeper until they rub across a firm flat node inside the soft passage.  At the same time, Sherlock bucks and lets out a shockingly loud bitten-off yell.  Lestrade’s eyes widen in understanding and he grins back at John before repeating the action.

Slowly at first and then with increasing confidence, Lestrade starts fucking Sherlock again with his fingers, dragging his fingertips across Sherlock’s prostate with each thrust.  Below him, Sherlock is bucking and writhing, letting out a continuous stream of incoherent moans and cries and thrusting back to take his fingers deeper as Lestrade ruthlessly stimulates his prostate.  Lestrade starts rocking his hips in time with Sherlock’s thrusts, almost involuntarily imaging the feeling of burying his cock in the tight, slick passage.  John climbs onto the bed next to him, kneeling beside Sherlock, and bends down until his mouth is just above Sherlock’s ear.

“How does that feel, Sherlock?  How does it feel to have Greg’s fingers buried in your arse, fucking you?” John asks in a rough voice.

“Ungh… fuck… it’s… God… so good…” Sherlock pants out, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“You look fucking incredible, Sherlock,” John continues, his voice low and ragged.  “I love to watch you lose control like this, on your knees with Greg’s fingers in your arse, begging for it like a slut.”  Sherlock moans louder in response, thrashing his head from side to side.

“John… please….”

“What do you want, Sherlock?  Tell us what you need,” John purrs into Sherlock’s ear.

“Please… I need to come… God, please.”

“Oh fuck,” Lestrade grunts out, imagining Sherlock coming with his fingers inside him.  His cock pulses at the thought.  John glances back at him, smiling, and then turns back to Sherlock.

“Oh Sherlock.  No.”  Sherlock gives a choked cry and bucks harder on Lestrade’s fingers, whimpering.  Lestrade has to fight back a disappointed groan.  John just smiles wider.  “I’m going to fuck your tight arse, Sherlock, and Greg is going to fuck your mouth.  You will come while we fuck you, and not before.”  He looks up to Lestrade and adds, “Three fingers now.”

Lestrade freezes briefly, the scene John has just described filling his mind while arousal stabs through his body in a pulse so sharp and sudden that it is almost painful.  Then he pulls his fingers out of Sherlock’s arse and pushes in again with three.  Sherlock cries out as Lestrade breeches him and sets a vicious pace, pushing his fingers in and out hard and fast, rubbing against his prostate less consistently as he loses control of the rhythm in his haste.

John watches hungrily, his avid gaze shifting between Sherlock’s face and Lestrade’s as both men lose themselves in their desire.  After a few moments he leans in toward Sherlock’s ear and locks his eyes on Lestrade.

“When you’re ready, Sherlock, I want you to ask.  I want to hear you beg us…,” John’s voice breaks here and he has to swallow before he can continue, “Beg us to fuck you, to take you and pound you like a dirty whore.”

Sherlock and Lestrade both release low moans at this speech.  Lestrade opens his eyes to see John, still leaning down beside Sherlock and staring up at him with dark narrow eyes, panting.  Sherlock, still rocking on Lestrade’s fingers, throws his head back and forth, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

John watches, and then mouths the word “stop” to Lestrade.  It takes him a moment to realize what John is requesting.  With a huge amount of mental effort, he stills his fingers, leaving them buried deep in Sherlock’s arse but not moving.  Immediately, Sherlock gives a strangled cry and wriggles backward, trying to fuck himself on Lestrade’s hand.  Lestrade can feel the band of muscle around his fingers fluttering and clamping in a fast staccato rhythm, and the sensation nearly drives him over the edge.  He grunts and bucks his hips, head hanging down, fighting back the need to come.  Below, John watches with a lascivious smile as he regains control of himself.

“Hmm?” John hums in Sherlock’s ear, his eyes still on Lestrade.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, John please.  I need it, need you to fuck me, need to feel you in my arse, please.  I want you to take me and pound me, fucking split me open with your cock, God, please, I need it, need you.”  Sherlock’s eyes are still shut tight as he begs, a blush suffusing the pale skin of his face and neck.  John opens his mouth and lets his hot breath ghost across the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Oh yes, very good.  Such a good boy,” he purrs out, gaze still locked on Lestrade’s.  Sherlock whimpers again, blush intensifying.  “What else do you want?”

“I want… I want Lestrade to fuck my mouth.”

“Ask him, then.”

“Oh God, Lestrade,” Sherlock pants out, trying again to thrust his arse back on Lestrade’s fingers, “will you please let me suck your dick?  I want to feel you, feel you in my mouth, in my throat.  God, please, just shove your cock in my mouth and fuck my face, please.  I want to feel it, feel you, so bad, please, _God_!”

At Sherlock’s words, Lestrade growls and shoves his fingers in and out of his arse hard, taking care to scrape across his prostate.  Sherlock _screams_ at the feeling, nearly sobbing as he grinds his face into the mattress and shoves his arse back onto Lestrade’s hand.  At this, John scrambles backward off the bed and comes up next to Lestrade, grabbing his arm and pulling him backward until his fingers slip out of the tight embrace of Sherlock’s passage.  Sherlock gives a pained whimper at the loss.

“Now.  Fuck, yes, now,” John pants out, pushing Lestrade around the bed.  Lestrade turns, hurries around to the other side of the bed and clambers on.  Across the bed, John is pouring lube into his hand and slathering it onto his cock.  Lestrade stops where he is, kneeling beside Sherlock’s head, and watches as John carefully lines his cock up with Sherlock’s entrance.

John’s eyes come up and he looks directly at Lestrade.  He gives a little smile and bites his lip softly.  Lestrade stares back, entranced, desperate to see this.  John watches him, motionless, for just a moment and then slides forward, smoothly pushing his cock into Sherlock’s body.  His eyelids flutter and his head rolls back at the sensation, and he moans deeply.  Lestrade, thinking of the feeling of Sherlock’s arse around his fingers, moans along with him.

In front of Lestrade, Sherlock lets out a long shuddering cry as John enters him, the muscles in his back tensing visibly.  He is still braced on his elbows, his head hanging down, forehead pressed into the rumpled duvet beneath him.  Behind him, John pushes in as deeply as he can and then falls still.  Sherlock wriggles on his cock, soft whines escaping his throat.  Lestrade swallows hard as he watches Sherlock take John’s cock, and then he looks up at John, who is looking back through heavy-lidded eyes.

Eyes locked with John, Lestrade reaches down and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  Slowly, he strokes his hand down the side of Sherlock’s face and down his neck to his shoulder.  Then he moves his hand around until his fingers are wrapped around Sherlock’s throat, and he squeezes tight.

Lestrade lowers his gaze to look at Sherlock as he tightens his grip around his throat and lifts.  Sherlock scrambles a little bit as Lestrade pulls him up by the neck, flailing his arms around before he manages to get his hands underneath him to take his weight.  As he rises, Lestrade allows the pressure of his hand on his throat to relax until Sherlock is up on his hands and knees, panting, with John’s cock buried in his arse and Lestrade’s hand wrapped loosely around his neck.

Lestrade strokes his hand up Sherlock’s neck until his fingertips rest on his chin, and then exerts gentle pressure to tip Sherlock’s head up.  Sherlock looks up obediently, his expression open and needy, and his lips part as his eyes fall on Lestrade’s face.

Lestrade feels his breath stop as he looks down at Sherlock and for the first time he realizes, really understands, that he can have this, can have whatever he wants.  This is sex like he has never had it before, rough and hard and sweet and beautiful, everything permitted, all desires encouraged, even those he did not realize he had until now.  No experience he has ever had in the past has been so open and honest and raw.  Right now, in this dimly lit bedroom in a messy flat on a random Friday night, these two men are offering him an absolute feast of desire, and all he has to do is reach out to take what he has been given.

In his mind, he can feel the last of his defenses collapsing.  They are not holding anything back from him, are instead opening themselves completely and allowing him to be a part of their deepest fantasies.  And finally he feels free to do the same.

Smiling down at Sherlock, Lestrade wraps one hand around his own cock and leans forward slightly, dragging the tip across Sherlock’s lips, painting his mouth with precome.  Sherlock waits, lips slightly parted and eyes falling shut, breath escaping his mouth in soft puffs, until Lestrade pulls back.  Then he opens his eyes, locks his gaze with Lestrade’s, and licks the glistening fluid off his lips, moaning in apparent delight.

A deep throb of desire pulses through Lestrade at the sight of Sherlock licking his lips, the sound of his moan, and all at once he is overwhelmed with the need to be inside him.  He grips Sherlock’s jaw tightly with his hand, fingers pressing into one cheek and his thumb pressing into the other, then moves forward again, bringing the head of his cock to Sherlock’s slightly open mouth.  Sherlock extends his tongue and licks his own lips again, leaving them shiny with saliva, and then flicks his tongue across the tip of Lestrade’s cock teasingly.

With a growl, Lestrade thrusts his cock hard between Sherlock’s parted lips, ignoring the sharp gasp of breath he releases.  With his fingers gripping Sherlock’s jaw, he can feel himself through Sherlock’s cheek, sliding into his hot wet mouth; the dual sensation on his hand and his cock is indescribably fantastic.  He lets his head fall back and his eyes flutter closed as he continues pushing forward until he feels the head of his cock hit the back of Sherlock’s throat.

He falls still, lifting his head upright with an effort and opening his eyes to see John, who is staring back at him with a ravenous expression.  Between them, Sherlock is wiggling, his hips jumping up and down slightly, squeezing out short high little grunts, impaled at both ends by cock.  Lestrade lets his mouth fall open to take in more air and moves his hands until he is gripping two fistfuls of Sherlock’s hair.

John’s lips curl into a tight smile and he drops his eyes to Sherlock for a moment before bringing his gaze back up to Lestrade.  Then he draws back, slowly, so slowly, his cock sliding smoothly out of Sherlock’s arse.  Sherlock whimpers and rocks backward toward John, and Lestrade’s cock slips through his lips and along his tongue, sending a strong shock of pleasure through him.  Then John’s smile widens as he looks into Lestrade’s eyes and nods, just a tiny motion up and down.  Lestrade has just a second to wonder what the nod means before John thrusts forward, hard, burying his cock deep in Sherlock’s arse, and then starts thrusting in earnest.

“Oh fuck, fuck!”  The words are forced out of Lestrade almost involuntary, as the motion of John’s thrusting pushes Sherlock’s mouth up and down his cock.  He tightens his grip in Sherlock’s hair and holds himself still, letting the intense feelings wash over him, head rolling back again as Sherlock’s hot moist mouth slides along his length.

With his eyes closed, all of Lestrade’s awareness is centered on the intense sensations he is feeling and the sounds filling the room around him.  Sherlock’s lips, forming a tight slick ring around his shaft, the heat and softness of Sherlock’s mouth as he moves in and out, the firm pull and incredible pressure as he sucks hard on Lestrade’s cock.  He can hear rhythmic wet slapping sounds as John pounds against Sherlock’s lavish arse, John’s soft grunting and Sherlock’s low moans, his own harsh panting as his breath whistles between his clenched teeth.  He twists his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, letting the silky strands slip through his grip before squeezing tighter and pulling.  Sherlock’s moans get louder in response, the deep baritone rumble vibrating through Lestrade’s cock and drawing an echoing moan from him.

Slowly, Lestrade starts thrusting gently in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, setting a rhythm that opposes John’s so that they are both withdrawing or both pushing in at the same time.  Each time he draws back, Sherlock gasps in a sharp breath, and then seals his lips back around Lestrade’s cock and sucks hard as Lestrade pushes back in, breathing out little moans and grunts through his nose.  Across the bed, John is gripping Sherlock’s hips tight in both hands as he thrusts smoothly in and out of Sherlock’s arse, sliding the entire length of his cock in and out of the tight passage at a leisurely pace.  From his position across the bed, Lestrade can see John’s shaft disappearing into Sherlock’s stretched hole, and the sight of it is shockingly erotic, sending tight pulses of pleasure shooting through him and making his mouth flood with saliva as he watches.

Lestrade lifts his eyes from the beguiling sight and slowly drags his gaze up John’s body, taking the time to admire his compact, sturdy form, the steady tighten and release of his muscles as he pushes in and out of Sherlock.  Then his eyes meet John’s and he is jolted by the blazing force of the desire in John’s expression as he looks back at Lestrade.  John’s eyes drop, gaze sliding gown Lestrade’s body to rest on Sherlock’s lithe, undulating form.

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re so tight,” John says, voice low and rough.  “You feel so fucking good.  I swear, it’s like you were made for my cock.”  Sherlock moans low and long at the sound of John’s words, and the filthy words and the sensation vibrating through his cock pull an answering moan from Lestrade.

“Fuck, I love to see you like this,” John continues, eyes still locked on Sherlock’s back.  “How does it feel, Sherlock?  Does it feel good to suck cock while I’m fucking you?  To feel Greg’s cock sliding in and out of your mouth while I fuck your gorgeous arse?  God, you look amazing.  So fucking sexy.”  John changes his pace as he talks, holding Sherlock stationary with his grip on his hips and pushing into him with short, sharp thrusts.  Sherlock grunts with each thrust, eyes shut tight and lips stretched around Lestrade’s shaft.

John smiles and leans forward, pushing himself deeply into Sherlock’s arse and holding there.  His eyes move up to lock with Lestrade’s as he rests one hand on Sherlock’s spine between his shoulder blades.  Then he starts to push down gently, steadily forcing Sherlock’s chest down toward the bed.  Sherlock complies with the unspoken demand, arching his back and lowering his elbows to the duvet, extending his long neck and bending his head back to keep his lips around Lestrade’s cock as he does.

Finally, to Lestrade’s amazement, Sherlock comes to rest bent almost in half; arse in the air, braced on his elbows, chest hovering just above his arms, head bent back at an impossible angle.  Lestrade cannot push his cock all the way into Sherlock’s throat at this new angle, but the changes in pressure and friction are delicious.  The new position is clearly good for Sherlock, who is releasing a steady stream of moans and whimpers as he rocks backward, trying to impale John deeper within him.

“Oh fuck, fuck, yes,” John bites out, eyes raking the exaggerated curve of Sherlock’s spine and then locking on his upturned face.  John grips his hips tightly and starts to thrust, fast and rough, pounding deep and hard into his arse.  Sherlock’s spine is bent impossibly further with each thrust.  Lestrade thrusts into Sherlock’s mouth in time with John, his cock dipping in and out of that warm wet space, the light scrape of Sherlock’s teeth across his glans adding just the right amount of friction.  Sherlock is rocking helplessly between the two men, releasing short sharp grunts that are steadily increasing in pitch and intensity as John pumps steadily into his beautiful arse.  Each time John bottoms out, pushing fully into the tight passage, Sherlock’s spine bucks just a little bit in time with his steady grunts.

Lestrade watches, entranced and transported by his own pleasure, as Sherlock loses himself completely in the sensation of being impaled by two cocks.  His eyes are closed, brows slightly furrowed, moans pouring freely from his throat as he writhes on the bed between the two men.  His flawless skin is flushed red with arousal and the muscles along his back are flexing rhythmically in time with the thrusting.

Lestrade releases his grip in Sherlock’s hair and drops his right hand down to wrap softly around Sherlock’s long neck.  He leans forward slightly, changing the angle of his approach so that he can push his cock further down Sherlock’s throat.  Lestrade is moaning now, in time with his own thrusts, staring avidly down at Sherlock’s upturned face as he pushes in and out of his mouth.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Sherlock,” John pants out, and Lestrade finds himself agreeing.  He has never seen anything as gorgeous as Sherlock Holmes, naked and contorted, taking two cocks at one time and clearly loving it.  The sight of it is, quite simply, stunning.

“Greg,” John says, and Lestrade jerks his head up, startled out of his moment of adoration.  “How does it feel, to have your cock in Sherlock’s hot mouth?  Tell him how it feels.”

Lestrade hesitates for a moment, looking at John, who is looking back with an expression of absolute desire, jaw slack and breath whistling in and out of his mouth.  He swallows hard, trying to marshal his thoughts into some kind of coherent order, and then looks back down at Sherlock, watching his own cock slide back into that incredible mouth.

“Fuck, Sherlock, your mouth feels so good.  So good around my cock,” he says, working hard against the surges of arousal wracking his body to keep his voice steady and deep.  Sherlock opens his eyes as Lestrade talks, the sudden eye contact jolting Lestrade with another sharp pulse of want.  “You look fucking amazing, here on your knees with my dick in your mouth while John fucks your arse.  I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful,” he says with complete sincerity.

“Oh yeah,” John whispers, increasing his pace and driving harder into Sherlock’s body, his fingers sinking further into the flesh of Sherlock’s hips.  “It’s true, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, louder.

On his knees, Sherlock is squirming and rolling his spine, high-pitched, almost frantic-sounding noises escaping his mouth each time Lestrade pushes his cock deeper into his mouth.

“Are you close?” John asks.  Lestrade drags his eyes off of Sherlock’s beautiful face to focus on John, thinking for a moment that John is talking to him – and the answer, of course, is absolutely yes – but he is looking at Sherlock as he asks.  In response, Sherlock grunts faster around Lestrade’s cock, his tone high and frantic.  “God, yes,” John says, increasing his pace yet again.  “Then do it, Sherlock.  Come for us, right here on your knees.  Come while we both fuck you, come with my cock in your arse and Greg’s in your mouth.  Oh, fuck, yeah.”

Sherlock positively squeals as John continues to pound into him while he talks, his already sharply bent spine contorting even further.  Suddenly he tightens his lips around Lestrade’s cock and sucks hard, bucking and arching his back and grunting hard and deep.  His eyes are squeezed tightly shut and his face is locked in an exquisite expression of beautiful agony, and Lestrade knows that Sherlock is coming, right there, cock completely untouched.  The thought sets off a sympathetic resonance in his own body and he feels his balls tighten as pleasure shoots down his spine, his orgasm rushing up on him.

Gasping, he pulls out of Sherlock’s mouth.  Sherlock’s eyes fly open and lock on the sight of Lestrade’s cock where it bobs just in front of his face.  Lestrade takes himself in his left hand, right hand still holding Sherlock by the throat, and jerks his cock roughly.  One, two, three strokes, and his cock pulses, come spurting out and spattering across Sherlock’s upturned face in pearly ropes.  Sherlock’s eyes fall shut and his mouth opens, catching as much of Lestrade’s come as he can on his tongue, but the majority lands on his cheeks, his chin, and across the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck, yes, God, fuck,” John bites out as Lestrade collapses back onto his heels, panting hard, still gripping his cock tightly in his hand.  Lestrade opens his eyes to see John, gaze locked on Lestrade’s hand where he is squeezing himself as he rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm.  Then John leans down, wraps his arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist, and hauls Sherlock backwards up onto his lap.

Sherlock comes to rest seated on John’s lap, back pressed against John’s chest, his own thighs spread wide around John’s where he is kneeling back on the bed, his head tilted back on John’s shoulder.  He has love bites and bruises marking the sides of his neck, scratch marks across his torso, spatters of semen from his own orgasm on his belly just above his half-erect cock, and his face is dripping with Lestrade’s come.  He looks excellently debauched, and Lestrade loses his breath yet again as he gazes upon Sherlock’s glorious figure.

John looks at Lestrade over Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes dark and deep.  Eyes locked on Lestrade, he tightens his grip on Sherlock’s waist and raises his hips up from where he is resting back on his heels, lifting Sherlock in the process, and then thrusts up hard into Sherlock’s body.  Sherlock’s head rolls on his shoulder, curly hair plastered to his head with sweat, and he lets out a deep rumbling moan.

John continues to pump up into Sherlock from that position, holding Sherlock above him with his tight grip on Sherlock’s waist and thrusting up powerfully.  Sherlock, flopped across John’s body, remains completely boneless, his head bouncing around with each push from John below him.  As Lestrade watches in amazement, John turns his head slightly and licks up the side of Sherlock’s neck to his cheek, catching some of Lestrade’s come on his tongue and groaning out loud.  Lestrade finds himself moaning in response, and incredibly he feels his cock start to respond to the sight, despite the fact that he has already come twice tonight, once just a moment before.

He is somewhat less surprised to see Sherlock’s cock responding as well, lengthening and straightening, rising proud from his groin as John continues to fuck him hard and fast.

John keeps thrusting up into Sherlock from that position, and Lestrade finds himself impressed by the strength John is displaying – the raw physical power necessary to maintain that pace, that position.  John’s hips pump up and down in a smooth, steady rhythm as he turns his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and bites down hard on Sherlock’s exposed neck.

“Oh John, fuck yes,” Sherlock says in a deep low voice.  “God, you feel so good.  I love how you fuck me.”  Sherlock’s words, his warm honey voice, coax out another deep pang of arousal in Lestrade, and he shivers as his cock fills and pulses.  His eyes slide from John’s teeth clamped around Sherlock’s skin, travel down that long, flawlessly marked and beautifully filthy body, and come to rest on Sherlock’s erect cock.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock starts chanting in time with John’s thrusts.  Lestrade’s mouth fills with saliva as he watches Sherlock’s cock and balls, gloriously on display between his spread thighs, jumping with the force of John’s steady fucking.  From his angle, he can just see John’s cock appearing and disappearing into Sherlock’s arse with each push.  He is startled at the sudden urge that fills him while he watches, to take Sherlock’s cock into his mouth while John fucks him, but he does not hesitate.  Not now, not with them.

He licks his lips and rises up onto his knees, leaning over Sherlock’s body.  Quickly, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks it, taking care to make sure that his palm is wet with saliva, and then he leans forward and brings his face down to Sherlock’s, on the opposite side from John.

“You are so fucking hot,” he whispers into Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock gasps and then moans softly as Lestrade speaks.  “I love to watch you get fucked, to watch you lose control and moan and beg.  I can’t get enough.”

With these words, Lestrade drops his saliva-slicked hand and grasps Sherlock’s cock, forming a tight ring around the shaft.  Sherlock yells out at the sensation, a sudden wordless shout of surprise and pleasure, as Lestrade grips his shaft and allows the force of John’s thrusts to push Sherlock’s cock in and out of his fist.

“Oh Jesus fuck, Sherlock, God, you’re so tight,” John chokes out from the other side of Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock releases a long whimper, his head thrashing from side to side between the two men.

“Mmmm, yeah,” Lestrade purrs into Sherlock’s ear as his thrashing subsides, cock still gripped tightly in Lestrade’s fist.  “I want to see you come again.  I want you to come twice while John fucks you, while I watch.  You’re so fucking _beautiful_.”  Sherlock is releasing a steady stream of whimpers now, and on his other side John is grunting steadily as he pushes in and out of Sherlock’s arse.  “But first,” Lestrade continues, voice low and soft as he speaks directly into Sherlock’s ear, “I want to suck your cock.”

“Oh my God,” Sherlock says, his own voice going high and breathy with desire.  His eyelids crack open and he watches carefully as Lestrade releases his grip on his cock and then backs away from the two men, still on his knees.  He bends down onto all fours and leans in close, his head just above Sherlock’s cock, and licks his lips.  John, watching as well, slows the speed of his thrusts to allow Lestrade time to find a comfortable position.

Lestrade licks his lips again and looks up, along the length of Sherlock’s body, to meet his eyes where he is looking down at Lestrade through slitted lids.  Lestrade smiles, reaching one hand up to gently grasp Sherlock’s cock and aim it toward his mouth.

“Oh yes,” he says, eyes still locked on Sherlock’s, and then he leans forward and wraps his lips around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock’s head falls back onto John’s shoulder and he positively keens at the sensation of Lestrade’s mouth around his shaft as John continues to push softly into him.  Lestrade works to keep his lips tight and holds himself still, allowing the force of John’s thrusts to slide Sherlock’s cock in and out of his mouth.  The sensation is still new and strange for Lestrade, but it is undeniably arousing to feel Sherlock’s cock jump against his tongue, to hear the steady stream of moans, whimpers, and nonsense words that tumble from Sherlock’s lips as he is fucked into Lestrade’s mouth.  Lestrade wishes briefly that he could see Sherlock’s face right now, as he has no doubt that Sherlock’s expression is stunning, but this is certainly worth missing out on that.

Gradually, giving Lestrade time to get used to it, John picks up the pace and force of his thrusts, pushing Sherlock’s cock deeper into Lestrade’s mouth.  Relaxing into the sensation, Lestrade allows it, fighting down his reflexive urge to back off when he feels Sherlock’s cock start to hit the back of his throat on each thrust.

As before, Lestrade finds himself surprised at how much he enjoys the silky smooth feeling of a cock in his mouth; the sensation of pressure against his tongue, cheeks, and throat as it fills him.  Waves of pleasure wash through his body with each slide of Sherlock’s cock in and out of his mouth, and he starts moaning with each thrust, his own cock twitching in sympathetic pleasure where it hangs, heavy and untouched between his thighs, as Sherlock writhes above him.

Lestrade closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensation of Sherlock fucking his mouth.  His awareness narrows down to the feeling of the cock sliding forward and back between his lips, the sounds of his own moans, Sherlock’s whimpers and John’s grunts, the sharp musky smell of arousal and sex and lube and come.  His body is wracked with shuddering stabs of pleasure and arousal, and precome is dripping from his cock.  He is so caught up in the experience that he is surprised to feel Sherlock’s hand tugging his hair as Sherlock’s moans get suddenly louder and the cock in his mouth starts to twitch.

He realizes that Sherlock is about to come, and makes a choice.  Ignoring Sherlock’s frantic pulling on his hair, he leans forward and takes Sherlock’s cock as deeply into his throat as he can, grunting at the feeling and rolling his tongue along the length as well as he is able.  Sherlock squeals loudly and arches his back, rising up off of John’s body and pushing his cock even deeper into Lestrade’s mouth.  Lestrade fights the need to gag at the sudden pressure and holds himself still as Sherlock pulses into his throat, the unfamiliar taste of semen flooding his mouth.

“God, fuck, yes,” Lestrade hears John say above him, and the force of John’s thrusts suddenly increases.  Sherlock, apparently beyond words, lets out an unintelligible stream of high-pitched sounds, bucking and twitching, and pulls Lestrade’s hair harder.  Lestrade backs off, allowing Sherlock’s still-twitching cock to slide from between his lips, and collapses on his side in front of Sherlock and John where they still kneel on the bed.  He drops a hand to his own erect cock and starts to stroke himself as he watches.

John is gripping Sherlock’s hips so tightly that Lestrade is sure there will be bruises later as he pumps mercilessly up into Sherlock’s spent body, grunting hard with the force of his thrusts.  Suddenly he gasps out an “oh fuck” and pushes up hard, pulling Sherlock down on his cock with a punishing grip and rolling his hips as he shudders in pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s neck, eyes squeezed tight as he comes into the spent and boneless figure above him.  He freezes, back arched in pleasure, and lets out a long deep groan as his orgasm rips through him.  Lestrade feels another wave of pleasure pulse in him as he watches John come, and he speeds up his strokes on his own cock, feeling close to the edge himself.

After several seconds, John opens his eyes and looks down to where Lestrade reclines on his side, watching the two men and frantically working his own cock.  John’s eyes narrow as they fall on Lestrade’s hand.  He pulls Sherlock off of him, allowing his softening cock to slide from Sherlock’s arse, and turns, quickly and unceremoniously laying Sherlock’s limp form on the bed alongside Lestrade. 

John drops to the bed himself, grabs Lestrade’s legs and forcefully pulls them apart, twisting so that Lestrade ends up on his back on the bed, legs spread wide.  Sherlock is pressed against his left side and John is crouching between his knees.  Then John bats his hand away from his cock and swallows him down to the root.

Lestrade shouts out, slamming his head back into the bed at the incredible feeling that washes through him.  He cannot help but thrust up into John’s mouth, which John encourages by grabbing his arse and lifting Lestrade’s legs up, bending his knees to place his feet flat on the bed.  John is groaning around his cock and Lestrade is getting lost in the sensation, feeling his orgasm build, when suddenly John’s mouth pops off his cock.

Lestrade’s head comes up and his eyes fly open as he whimpers at the loss.  He looks down the length of his own body to where John is lying between his legs just in time to see John pulling his fingers, glistening with saliva, out of his own mouth.  John makes eye contact with him and his lips quirk in a brief smirk before he opens his mouth and quickly takes Lestrade’s cock back down his throat.  Lestrade’s head drops back down to the rumpled duvet and he moans.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, he feels John shove two slick fingers right up his arsehole, sliding in strongly until they push against his prostate.

A sheet of white fire fills his vision, roaring in his ears and blocking out all sights and sounds as the most intense pleasure he has ever felt rushes through him, magnified and sweetened by the little slice of pain from the intrusion into his virgin hole.  He can feel himself yelling and bucking on John’s fingers, but his body is completely out of his control while he is in the grip of the intense sensation.  Wave after wave of powerful pleasure rocks him, and all he can do is ride it out, shouting and flailing as John plays his body like an instrument.

His orgasm comes on him all at once, the intensity causing him to momentarily lose all awareness of the world around him, and he blacks out as he collapses back onto the bed.

When Lestrade regains control of his senses, he is lying on his side, still on top of the duvet.  Sherlock is snuggled up to his back, languidly kissing and mouthing his neck and trailing his fingertips softly over the skin of Lestrade’s hip and flank, whilst John is lying on his other side, facing Lestrade, one hand tucked up under his face and his eyes bright and dancing as he looks at him.  Lestrade offers John a tired smile as he tries to catch his breath.

“Holy crap,” Lestrade manages to say after a moment.

“Yeah,” John says, smiling softly, as Sherlock huffs out a soft laugh into Lestrade’s neck.

“That was… I’ve never…,” Lestrade starts, but he cannot think of how to finish the thought.  He gives up, breathing deeply and looking into John’s eyes.

“I know,” John answers his unfinished comment.  His eyes leave Lestrade’s for a moment, flicking to a spot just above him, and Lestrade realizes that he is looking at Sherlock.  Then John’s gaze returns to his, his expression serious.  “Neither have we,” he adds.

Lestrade feels his heart swell a little at the comment, and he is too exhausted to berate himself or fight down the emotions that rise in him at the idea that this experience might be as special to these two men as it is to him.  Instead, he just lets his eyes fall shut and utters a little sleepy grumble, snuggling his head down into the pillow and shimmying back against Sherlock’s body.

He hears John laugh a little bit, feels the mattress shift as John moves around, and then feels a soft blanket being dragged up his nude body.  Sherlock’s arm falls across his waist and squeezes, and John presses in close to his chest as all three men settle into the bed.

“Good night, then,” John says softly, amusement still evident in his tone.  Lestrade hums in response without opening his eyes, feeling himself already slipping into a contented sleep.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Lestrade wakes quickly, as he always does.  He blinks upward at the ceiling for a moment, unfamiliar in the dim predawn light, and then rolls over toward the warm body tucked against his right side.  The intensely peaceful vision of John, sleeping soundly, face slack and hand tucked up under his cheek, greets him.  He smiles and gazes down at John for a moment, enjoying the way that his face relaxes in sleep, taking at least ten years off his age.  Then he rolls onto his back and looks toward his other side, where the bed is empty.

Lestrade slides slowly out of the bed, gently pulling his arm out from under John’s head and climbing to his feet.  Slowly and carefully he tiptoes around the bed toward the door, snagging the beige dressing gown from where he placed it over the back of the chair on his way past.  He pauses in the doorway to glance back at John one more time before turning and leaving the room.

He is unsurprised to see a light on in the kitchen as he pads softly down the short hall, and he makes no effort to be silent as he steps out into the space.  Sherlock is there, perched on a stool once again, peering into his microscope and fiddling with the knobs.  He is wearing the red dressing gown from earlier, properly this time.  He does not look up as Lestrade enters the room.

“Morning,” Lestrade says, moving past Sherlock and toward the kettle.  “What time is it?”  He does not really expect an answer, and he is not disappointed.  Sherlock does not even twitch.

Lestrade smiles to himself as he moves around the kitchen, trying to remember where the tea supplies are kept.  Fortunately, he paid attention last night when John was making the tea, so he finds them with little trouble.

“Well, time for a cuppa, anyway.  Want one?” he asks Sherlock, mostly just to be irritating.  Somewhat surprisingly, Sherlock responds with a soft hum that Lestrade interprets as an affirmative.  He proceeds to prepare two cups of tea, remaining silent as he goes through the ritual.

As Lestrade leans against the counter, waiting for the tea to steep, he senses Sherlock peering at him, although the man does not move his head away from the lenses of the microscope.  He pretends not to notice and continues to relax backward against the edge of the counter, staring vaguely upward toward the ceiling as if lost in thought.  After a moment, Sherlock looks away again, returning his attention to whatever experiment he is currently conducting.

Just as Lestrade determines that the tea is done and turns to remove the bags from the water, Sherlock lets out an audible exhale and leans back on his stool.

“You’re not leaving,” he says, and it is a statement, rather than a question.  His eyes are raised from his microscope, but he is staring directly across the room instead of looking toward Lestrade.

“Well, not this minute, no,” Lestrade answers.  “First, I’m having some tea.”  He punctuates this statement by handing Sherlock his own mug of tea, black but containing a truly undignified amount of sugar, the way he knows Sherlock prefers it.  Sherlock takes the mug with no thanks – not that Lestrade expected any – and sniffs it carefully before setting it untouched onto the table directly alongside one of the beakers from earlier.  Lestrade hopes it is not the one with the acid.

“You aren’t nervous anymore.”  Although Sherlock attempts to say this using the same matter-of-fact tone that he did before, Lestrade hears a subtle questioning lilt in the comment.  For a moment he considers ignoring it, teasing Sherlock just a little bit by pretending to be obtuse, but finally settles on answering the unspoken question directly.

“Not as much, I guess,” he says.  Sherlock turns, then, to face him, slowly bringing his gaze up to meet Lestrade’s.  The question _Why not? What’s changed?_ is clear in his expression.  Lestrade takes a moment to enjoy the unusual situation before continuing.  Sherlock, asking _him_ for information.  Of course, he has always had a blind spot for social details.

“I just got to thinking about all this,” and Lestrade moves his hand in a circling gesture, taking in Sherlock, himself, and the hallway down which John is still sleeping, “and I finally decided that it’s better to enjoy what I have and live in the moment than to think about the future and worry, you know?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch into a tiny smile, but otherwise he does not say anything, still watching Lestrade closely.

“This was…” Lestrade swallows and looks away, discomfited by the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze, “… it was the best night I’ve had in a really long time, honestly.  And I mean the whole night, not just the… you know… the sex.  I had fun.  So, thank you.”

“And if that’s all there is, I can live with it,” he continues when Sherlock remains silent, speaking down to the floor at his feet.  “It was worth it, you know, and you certainly never made me any promises…”

“Lestrade, stop, you’re babbling,” Sherlock interrupts, and Lestrade gratefully stops talking.  Hesitantly, he turns back to look at Sherlock, and is surprised again to find him smiling.  This is the second time Lestrade has seen Sherlock’s genuine happy smile in as many days, and he takes a moment to savor the sight.

“Right, yes, sorry,” he says, shrugging.  “I guess I just meant, whatever happens next, it’s all fine.”

Sherlock’s smile deepens suddenly, as if Lestrade has said something especially funny, although he is not sure what that could be.  A moment later his expression softens again.

“Lestrade, surely even you must be aware that I don’t share _that_ ” accompanied by a toss of the head in the direction of the bedroom, “with very many people.  You can’t possibly imagine that I entered into this lightly, or without thinking it through.  You needn’t worry.”

“Well,” Lestrade answers, “I have seen you take an impulsive chance or two in your life, haven’t I?”

Sherlock shoots him a disgusted glance which clearly conveys the message “don’t be tiresome”, and then continues.

“There are, in fact, two people in the world that I would allow to see me… in such a state.”  As Sherlock speaks, Lestrade finds himself remembering the sight of Sherlock, shagged out and covered in come and bite marks, body flopped backwards as John thrust up into him.  He cannot stop the grin from rising to his lips.  Sherlock clears his throat.

“Exactly,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at Lestrade.  “And it just so happens that both of you were amenable to experimenting with such things.”  Lestrade snorts at the use of the word ‘experiment’, but does not interrupt.  “After such a successful initial result, you must agree that it would be in the appropriate spirit of scientific inquiry to attempt to replicate our findings.”

Lestrade takes a moment to parse that for meaning, and then grins widely.

“Well,” he says, “I suppose that makes sense.  If it’s for science.”

“That has to be the most _Sherlocky_ invitation I have ever heard,” comes John’s voice from the hallway.  Lestrade looks up in time to see John emerging from the shadows wrapped in his plaid dressing gown, amusement on his face.

“You told me to tell him how I _feel_ , so I did,” Sherlock answers, his voice dripping with distain as he utters the word.

“Yes, you did.  Thank you,” John answers, apparently sincere.   He steps up behind Sherlock and lifts up his curly hair, dropping a casual kiss on the back of his neck.  Sherlock smiles to himself and turns back to his microscope, clearly handing the reins of the conversation over to John now that he is in the room.

John turns to Lestrade.  “So, to sum up, Sherlock and I both think you’re pretty amazing, and we would like to make this a fairly regular thing, schedules permitting.  What do you say?”

“Who am I to deny science?” Lestrade answers, his grin stretching his face as wide as it can possibly go.  “Sounds like fun.”

“Excellent!  Now, let’s have some tea.”

Lestrade holds his half-empty mug up where John can see it and gives a little shrug.  At the same time, Sherlock picks up the mug Lestrade made for him and takes a loud, obvious, slurping gulp before setting the mug back onto the table with a thump.

John looks back and forth between the two of them for a moment wearing an expression of mock-outrage.

“You made tea for _him_ , but not me?” he says to Lestrade in a dramatically hurt tone, nudging Sherlock’s stool with his foot.  “We might have to rethink this whole arrangement after all.”

Lestrade finds himself laughing – maybe just a bit harder than the comment really deserves – as he turns and reaches into the cupboard over his head to grab a mug for John.  This is the strangest possible situation he can imagine finding himself in, but standing here in this disorganized kitchen, sharing a moment of comfortable camaraderie with John as the taste of Sherlock’s come still lingers in his throat, he suddenly cannot imagine being anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one chapter left, really more of an epilogue than anything, but it won't be up for a while. They boys are comfortable and happy here, so I'm going to be working on another story (that is just dying to be written) for a while before wrapping this one up. There is more to come, though, so keep an eye out.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been heavily revised since it was first posted. If you read it before 11/2/13, this version is different. However, the basic ending is unchanged.

Lestrade squats down and sets the box on the floor, grunting in relief as he releases the heavy weight.  He straightens up, one hand rubbing at the small of his back, and watches as Sally and Dimmock together carry another large box – this one labeled “kitchen” – through the front door of his new flat.  They turn into the kitchen and set the box none too gently on the floor with a loud ceramic clinking sound.

“Oi, careful!” Lestrade says.  Sally flips him two fingers with a smile as Dimmock mutters an insincere apology.

Behind them, the door swings wide again and John steps through, his eyes barely visible above the top of the box he is holding.  He stumbles just a bit as he steps in and then moves toward the back of the flat, peering around the box for more obstacles.

Lestrade stretches, hands braced at the small of his back, and then looks around in satisfaction.  They are just about done now, only one or two boxes left in the truck and then he will be all moved in.  The new flat is lovely, light and airy with high ceilings and tall windows, bright now with late afternoon sunlight.  It is right on the edge of Soho, on the second floor of an old but updated building.

The neighborhood is popular and well-travelled, shops and bars and restaurants lining the street, just a little bit trendy for Lestrade’s taste but nice anyway.  And it is close enough to the Yard that he can easily walk when he wants to, which is nice.  The fact that it is also within reasonable walking distance (and extremely reasonable distance by cab) to 221 Baker Street is, Lestrade thinks, just a happy coincidence.  Which certainly did not influence his decision to rent this particular flat.  Of course not.

With a small, self-deprecating smile at his own prevarication, Lestrade straightens up and heads back down the two flights of stairs to collect the last of his things, followed by Sally, Dimmock, and John.  On the way down, they pass Hughes and Frankie, two more of Lestrade’s friends from the Yard who volunteered to help him move, carrying more boxes.

Finally, after one more trip up the stairs, he is all moved in.  The group of police officers (and John) gather in his kitchen for celebratory beer and takeaway pizza, leaning against the counters or sitting on boxes in the mess that is a recently moved flat.

Sally leans back, finishing her beer, and turns to John.  “Nice of you to help,” she says.  John smiles back, a sunny expression.

“Happy to, you know.  Greg’s my friend, after all.”  He inclines his head toward Lestrade, who suddenly has to work to keep the smirk from his lips.  Friend indeed.

“Right,” Sally answers with a nod.  “It’s good to see you making other friends, too.  Although I’m not sure it’s healthy to be friends with this many coppers, either.”  John laughs and tips his drink to her.

“Hey, yeah, what about that other friend of yours?” Hughes addresses Lestrade from John’s other side.  “Sherlock, wasn’t it?  Why didn’t he help?”

Lestrade, Sally, and John stare at the man for a beat before all three of them break into giggles.  Dimmock, who was deep in conversation with Frankie, looks over at them while Hughes blinks.

“What’s funny?” Dimmock asks.

“Oh god, can you even imagine?” John manages to choke out, before dissolving into laughter again.  Sally snorts, wiping at one eye with her thumb.  Lestrade manages to get hold of himself after a moment, but little giggles continue to erupt out of him every few seconds.  Dimmock just watches them expectantly.

“Hughes here was just wondering…” Lestrade pauses to chuckle, “why Sherlock didn’t help us move.”

“Oh,” Dimmock answers, face blank with incomprehension.  At this, Lestrade loses his control and bursts into laughter again, joined by John.  Finally, they manage to tamp down on their laughter, although Lestrade finds that he cannot even look at Dimmock for several minutes afterward.

The conversation moves on to other topics, and eventually the group finishes their pizza and beer.

“Well,” Hughes says, moving toward the door, “I’ll leave you to start getting settled in, then.”  This seems to be a signal, and everyone else stands and starts to say their goodbyes.  Lestrade offers each one his sincere thanks and a handshake as they file out, taking care not to let his hand linger on John’s.  After several minutes, he is alone in his new flat.

With a sigh, Lestrade stretches and turns toward the sitting room.  It is a mess, with his old, ratty sofa shoved up against one wall and boxes stacked haphazardly around the space, some completely covering the coffee table, but in his mind he can imagine how it will look once he gets unpacked.  It will be comfortable, filled with his well-used furniture and (he has no doubt) stacks of case files and empty takeaway boxes.  He will get drapes for the huge windows overlooking the street below, in some cheerful tone, and he can imagine the way the room will fill with color when the sunlight hits them.  He smiles to himself.

In the past several months, Lestrade has finally started to feel like himself again, for the first time since his divorce.  Or, in all honesty, since well before that.  He has finally shaken off the persistent depression, that never-ending feeling of failure, of being _not good enough_ that first awoke within him the day he learned that his wife was sleeping with someone else.  He is no longer haunted by thoughts of what he could have done, could have changed about himself, to keep her from straying.

He is working less overtime these days, and has rediscovered how much he enjoys cooking, to the point that he’s considering taking a class in it.  He is working on getting himself into better shape, and he has even joined a local rugby team; he is terrible, and he can only play on weekends when he is available, but it is a good start.  And now, this lovely new flat, which is barely inside his budget but so much nicer than the tiny dirty place he took just after the divorce.  Overall, he feels like a new man, especially compared to the person he was just a few short months ago.

And Lestrade knows that most of the positive changes he has made can be attributed almost completely to the influence of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

It still gives him pause, when he thinks about it.  Sherlock, the same person who so callously announced his wife’s infidelity in front of an audience on not one but two separate occasions, who regularly mocks and berates him in front of his coworkers, who insults his intelligence right to his face, that same Sherlock has done more to help improve Lestrade’s self-esteem than practically anyone, except for John.

He must admit, when he first walked in on John and Sherlock at Bart’s, he never saw this coming.

He has been invited into their home, into their bed, into their lives.  At least once per week (and often more) he finds himself at the flat on Baker Street, watching telly with John, eating takeaway or, on one recent occasion, his own cooking.  Chatting with John about everything both important and mundane, while Sherlock does whatever it is he does with the equipment in the kitchen and throws in occasional unexpected comments or, more often, entirely expected insults.  Most of the time, although not always, these evenings eventually move to the bedroom, where Lestrade has become increasingly confident and comfortable.  Both John and Sherlock are happy to indulge, to gently instruct and guide, to let Lestrade experiment and discover the extent of his own desires.

It is absolutely the most honest, the most satisfying, the best sex he has ever had in his life.  And, just as importantly, it is one of the most satisfying emotional relationships he has ever experienced.

Lestrade is realistic about his role in John and Sherlock’s lives.  He recognizes that they have something special, a deep and abiding emotional commitment, a purity of love that he has never himself known, and he has no illusions that he is a part of that relationship.  Nor, in truth, does he wish to be.  He enjoys his time with them immensely, both in and out of the bedroom, and values the relationship he shares with them more than any other in his life.  He cherishes the time they spend together and is grateful for every moment.  He loves them both.  But he is not in love with either of them.

Being a part of their relationship, though, even in the brief and superficial way that he is, has given him one thing very important thing – something that he did not even realize he was missing until it returned.  It has given him hope.  Their bond is incredibly strong, the depth of their commitment to one another obvious and beautiful.  They can share what they have with him entirely because of this strength, allowing him to partake of the wealth of their relationship without diminishing or threatening what they have.  And Lestrade feels hopeful, now, to know that such a thing is possible.

When his marriage ended, he blamed his ex-wife of course for her infidelity, but even more than that he blamed himself.  In the back of his mind he always felt that he must have done something, or failed to do something, to drive her to it.  It was that feeling, more than anything else, that drove him into the depression he experienced after the divorce.  Now, though, after experiencing what John and Sherlock share, he understands that that is not the case.  He and his ex are both to blame, to some degree, but more than anything the problem is that they never felt that way about each other.  They never shared the depth of love and trust that Sherlock and John have between them.  He now thinks that their marriage was probably doomed from the start.

He is hopeful, however, that he can still find such a relationship for himself.  Now that he has seen it, tasted it, and knows it is possible, he can truly seek that same level of love and commitment.  And now he will be able to recognize when a relationship is just not good enough, as well.  Plus, let’s face it: if Sherlock Holmes, of all people, can find someone who can love him unconditionally, then certainly Lestrade can do so as well. 

His experience with John and Sherlock has helped him in another way, too.  Now that he has embraced this side of his sexuality, he has realized that he is no longer confined to dating just one gender.  The whole world is his oyster, and for the first time in a long while he is looking forward to cracking it open and swallowing it down.

Lestrade continues to putter around the messy space of the flat for a bit, absently picking things up and putting them down again without really making any dent in the chaos as he lets his mind wander, a small half-smile on his face.  Finally, he comes back to himself and decides to take a shower.  He has to spend some time searching through boxes to find his soap and towels, but it is worth it.  The water pressure in the new flat is fantastic, and Lestrade lingers for a bit, just enjoying it. 

When he gets out, feeling refreshed and clean, the light outside has started to fade into purple as the sun sets.  He has just finished toweling himself dry and throwing on a fresh t-shirt and pair of jeans when he hears a knock at the door.

He opens the door without checking the peephole, and is unsurprised to see John, grinning at him and holding a bag of takeaway.  Behind him, Sherlock is scowling and examining the doorframe.

“Evening,” John says as Lestrade steps to the side and holds the door wide for them.

“The last person to live here clearly had several cats,” Sherlock states without preamble before Lestrade is able to respond to John.  “I hope you ensured that the place was professionally cleaned before you moved your things in.”

Lestrade cannot hold in his grin.  “Hi John, Sherlock,” he says as they enter.

John returns the smile while Sherlock makes a brief second of eye contact and then continues visually scanning every inch of the flat’s interior.  Lestrade follows them into the kitchen, where John has set the take-away bag down on the counter and is pulling out containers.  The lovely spicy smell of curry is already filling the room.

“Indian?” Lestrade asks absently, looking at the boxes covering most of the kitchen floor for the one that contains the utensils.

“Yeah, well, I thought…” John trails off, and Lestrade looks up to see him staring intently at the bag of food, scrubbing the back of his head with one hand.  Lestrade lifts an eyebrow and waits.  “This is our first time having dinner at yours, and we had Indian the first time you came to ours, so…”

Behind him, Sherlock sniffs.  “Sentiment.”  John shrugs, still looking down, smiling just a little bit.

Lestrade fights the grin that keeps trying to appear on his face.  “In that case, do you have a banoffee pie?”  Sherlock perks up at that, watching John.

“Ah, no.  Couldn’t manage to find the time to get one.”

Lestrade nearly laughs at the way that Sherlock deflates, and the grin finally makes its way to his lips.  He winds his way around the boxes on the floor to the refrigerator and pulls out a small box with a flourish.  “That’s probably good.  Don’t know what we’d do with two pies.”  John’s head comes up quickly at that, and he chuckles as he takes in the box.  Lestrade chuckles with him.  “You’re not the only sentimental one here, I guess.”

Sherlock is suddenly much closer to him, and Lestrade has to move quickly to get the pie put away and the refrigerator door closed before he is there, his broad shoulders and chest almost completely blocking Lestrade’s view of the room.

“Lestrade,” he purrs, his voice a deep soft rumble, “I’d like some of that.”  He raises one hand and brings it to the door handle, letting his palm brush against Lestrade’s arm in the process.  And Lestrade swallows hard against the sudden, unexpected bolt of lust that lances through him at the contact.

“Yes, I imagine you would,” he answers, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart.  “But pudding comes after dinner, so I guess you’ll just have to wait.”

Sherlock takes a step closer, letting his whole body press against Lestrade’s.  He exhales softly, his breath dancing warm down Lestrade’s neck and drawing out a shiver.  “Are you certain?”

Lestrade nods shakily.

“That’s a pity,” Sherlock continues, his voice soft and low, dripping like honey from his lips.  “Because I wanted to lick it off your cock.”

Lestrade sucks in a sharp breath and feels his cock jump in enthusiastic agreement.  He shivers again and steps slightly to the side, away from the refrigerator.  “Well, in that case, I guess dinner can wait.  Be my guest.”

Sherlock leans back and gives him a smirk before pulling the fridge open and withdrawing the box.  As he goes about pulling out the pie, Lestrade looks past his shoulder to see John, who has arranged himself on top of one of the larger boxes like a lazy king on a throne, leaning back in a half-slouch with his knees spread.  Lestrade can see a bulge at the crotch of his trousers, which he is idly rubbing with one hand.  When he sees Lestrade looking, he licks his lips and then bites the bottom one.  Lestrade swallows at the sight, another wave of heat flushing through him.

Then Sherlock is in front of him again.  He smiles a predatory smile at Lestrade before turning his attention to the pie he holds so casually in one hand.  Sherlock brings up one finger and drags it through the whipped cream on top and then, just as he meets Lestrade’s eyes, sucks the finger into his mouth.  His cheeks hollow out with the suction and he slides the finger in and out of his mouth just a bit as he works it with his tongue.  Lestrade groans.

With no further preamble, Sherlock drops to his knees, giving Lestrade an uninterrupted view of where John sits, legs sprawled out, watching intently with hooded eyes and still stroking his cock through his trousers.  Sherlock gently places the pie on the floor beside him before unzipping Lestrade’s jeans.  He looks up through his lashes, gazing with a smoldering expression until Lestrade manages to tear his eyes from John and look down. 

Sherlock’s tongue flashes pink as he licks his lips and then withdraws Lestrade’s erect cock from the confines of his jeans without even bothering to pull them down first.  Without breaking Lestrade’s gaze, Sherlock scoops some whipped cream from the top of the pie and drags a streak of white down the length of Lestrade’s erection.  Then he leans forward and slowly, _slowly_ licks it off again.  His eyes flutter shut and he hums softly as if savoring the taste.

Lestrade holds himself still, frozen in place, eyes wide and not even breathing as he watches.  Sherlock brings up another handful, gooey with toffee and cream, and smears it all around the head of Lestrade’s cock.  The sensation is cold and sticky and weird, but then Sherlock wraps his mouth around the mess and sucks and it is warm and wet and tight and perfect.  Lestrade braces his hands on the edge of the counter behind him and lets his eyes fall shut, his head roll back as Sherlock works his tongue over and over across the head of his cock, sucking hard to collect every last trace of toffee.  Sherlock hums again, the vibration shivering straight up Lestrade’s shaft, and he cannot help but moan aloud at the feeling.

He hears an answering moan and his eyes snap open to see John, still sprawled out across the box, with his flies opened and his cock in his hand, stroking himself with slow firm pulls as he watches Sherlock sucking sweet cream and toffee from Lestrade’s cock.  The sight sends another wave of arousal pulsing through him, and Lestrade groans.

Sherlock slides off slowly and looks up at Lestrade with a smirk.  There is whipped cream, white and soft and dripping, smeared all around his mouth, and he makes no move to clean it off.  Instead, he brings up more of the pie and drags another streak of gooey cream up Lestrade’s erection.  This time, he leans over and carefully laps at the mess with gentle little kitten licks, his tongue flicking fast and soft across Lestrade’s flesh.  The sensation is maddening, almost ticklish across his sensitized skin and too light to provide any kind of real friction.

Lestrade clenches his fingers on the counter, forcing himself to hold still as Sherlock continues to lap cream off of him with those light little brushes of tongue.  Without meaning to, he starts to thrust his hips forward, seeking more intense sensations.  Sherlock moves with him, keeping his touch light, and when his eyes flash up to Lestrade’s there is a challenge there.

With a grunt, Lestrade lets go of the counter and roughly grabs hold of Sherlock’s hair with both hands, holding his head still.

“Is this what you want, then?” Lestrade asks as Sherlock looks up at him, lips parted and eyes wide.  “You want me to fuck your face?  Is that it?  Hold you by the hair and pound my cock into your mouth?”

“Mmmm, oh yes,” Sherlock purrs, his eyes falling halfway closed as Lestrade speaks.  And, as always, Lestrade has to struggle against the overwhelming rush of lust he feels at the sight of Sherlock so willing and pliant.

“Well then, what do you say?”

Sherlock opens his eyes again, looking up at Lestrade through heavy lashes.  He tries to lean forward, extending his tongue toward Lestrade’s erection bobbing in front of his face, and Lestrade has to tighten his grip in Sherlock’s hair to hold him still, keep him from reaching his prize.  He watches, keeping his face impassive, as Sherlock struggles briefly before falling still again.

“Lestrade… please, use me.  Use my mouth, fuck my face, please,I want you to, _please_.”

The sight and sound of Sherlock’s surrender sends a bolt of desire slamming through him, and without a thought Lestrade trusts his cock hard into Sherlock’s open gasping mouth.  Sherlock moans loudly around his shaft as he starts pumping his hips, driving his cock in and out of Sherlock’s mouth while he holds his head still by the grip in his hair.  His mouth is hot and wet and perfect, and Lestrade pushes in until he can feel the head of his cock pressing against the back of Sherlock’s throat, over and over.

“Oh fuck yeah,” John gasps out roughly, and Lestrade cannot help but look up at him.  John is stroking himself in earnest now, his tongue dipping out between his lips over and over as he watches Lestrade fucking Sherlock’s mouth.  His pupils are blown wide and his skin is flushed, and the sight of his pleasure goes straight to Lestrade’s cock.

Lestrade can feel his balls drawing up to his body, his orgasm creeping up on him, but he is not ready to be done, not ready to stop.  And he does not want to finish before John has had a chance to get more seriously involved.  So, with nearly superhuman effort, he makes himself stop, pulling Sherlock’s head backward by the hair and holding him there, where he cannot reach Lestrade’s cock.

Sherlock moans and whimpers and struggles when Lestrade pulls him off, but Lestrade does not look down, instead keeping his eyes locked on John, who looks back quizzically, one hand still wrapped around his cock.

“You know, there are a few other rooms in this flat,” Lestrade says.  John raises an eyebrow but stays silent.  “I was thinking we could break them all in, you know?”

John’s eyes widen in understanding and he smirks as he stands up from his makeshift seat, not bothering to tuck himself away or fasten his trousers.  He walks over to where Lestrade is standing and looks down to where Sherlock kneels, now still and silent.

“Hmm,” John says, tracing one finger along Sherlock’s forehead and down his cheek.  Sherlock tilts his head into the touch.  “You know, I rather like that idea.”  John leans forward a bit.  “Sherlock, go into the living room, strip, and kneel on the sofa facing the wall.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly and then he nods once and stands up, disappearing through the archway into the other room.  John leans in to Lestrade, running one hand through his hair, and kisses him sweetly.  Lestrade moans softly into the kiss, running his hands down John’s back as John rubs his cock against Lestrade’s thigh.

“Well, shall we?” John asks when they break apart.

“After you.”  Lestrade grins and gestures to the archway with a little half bow.  John smiles back and saunters into the other room, pulling his shirt over his head.

Lestrade lingers, just for a moment, watching John walk away and thinking about his good fortune.  Then he shakes his head at himself and smiles softly, following John into the room where Sherlock waits.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The following Monday finds Lestrade sat at his desk at the Yard, reviewing his notes on a recent murder investigation and occasionally whistling.  He is in excellent spirits.  His cases are going well, and it looks as though he will be able to resolve the current murder without calling Sherlock, which is always good for the morale of his team.  His new flat is lovely, although the majority of his stuff is still in boxes.  And there is a deep, delicious ache in his muscles that only comes from spending an entire weekend having fantastic sex.

All in all, he feels outstanding.

He has been thinking a lot recently about his life and the direction it is headed, and he has decided that it is time he start looking for a relationship of his own, rather than borrowing Sherlock and John’s.  He finally feels like he is prepared, ready to open himself and offer his heart to the right person.  For the first time in a long time, he is looking forward to it.

Last night he told John and Sherlock how he feels.  He was not sure what he was expecting, but overall if had gone very well.  John had accepted his pronouncement with a smile and a gentle kiss and thanked him for sharing himself with them.  Sherlock had reacted with insults and disparaging comments, but Lestrade knew him well enough to understand that Sherlock was using bluster to conceal his feelings of rejection.

He had hugged Sherlock and held him, until the nasty comments trailed into silence, until Sherlock had gone limp in his arms, until Sherlock had hugged him back.  Then he spoke, telling Sherlock and John how they had saved him, how much they meant to him, how their love had pulled him back from the sucking well of depression and shown him how much better things could be.  He let the tears flow as he spoke, not from sadness but because of the strength of his emotions, and ignored the wetness against his chest where Sherlock had tucked his face.

The evening ended with the three of them tangled together, with slow sweet caresses and soft sucking kisses and murmured endearments.  Afterwards, John had invited Lestrade to continue what they had for as long as he wanted, and Lestrade had agreed.  Sherlock had stood quickly, disparaging them for their sentiment, and then trotted into Lestrade’s new kitchen and used Lestrade’s only pot to boil some disgusting liquid he had somehow smuggled into the flat with him. 

Lestrade was left with a warm glow in his chest and the knowledge that he has forged a deep and unbreakable connection with these two remarkable men; a connection borne of love and respect, cemented with mutual desire.  And no matter what else happens in his life, he will always have that.

Lost in his recollection, it takes a moment for Lestrade to become aware of Sally’s voice, raised and getting progressively louder outside his office door.  She sounds quite angry, too.  He wonders whether Sherlock has come in to the Yard to demand a case or make trouble, as he sometimes does when he is bored.  He is not sure he has ever heard Sally get so angry with anyone else.

His door opens, punctuated by a particularly loud and irritated squawk from Sally, and an unfamiliar man steps through.  He is tall and slim, wearing a nicely cut but plain suit.  He is striking-looking, handsome in an unconventional way, his nose a bit on the sharp side.  In one hand, he clutches an umbrella.  When he notices this, Lestrade glances at the bright sunlight streaming through the window and then raises one eyebrow at the man.

Ignoring it, the man extends a hand.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Lestrade stands and leans over his desk to shake the offered hand.  The man’s skin is soft under his fingers.

“Yes?  How can I help you?”

“I would like to ask you some questions about my brother.”

“Your brother?  Is it someone I arrested?”  Lestrade narrows his eyes as he drops into his seat.  “I cannot comment on any open investigations.”

“No, my brother is Sherlock Holmes.  I am Mycroft Holmes.”

Lestrade glances up sharply, startled.  He has heard of Mycroft, mainly from John.  Evidently, he is some kind of government spook and wields an enormous amount of power.  The British government in human form, John had said, and he had been shocked that Lestrade had never been kidnapped by him.

He had also mentioned that the two brothers did not have the most amiable of relationships.

“Oh.  Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade says finally.  His voice has gone harder, his words clipped.  He has no intention of talking to this man about Sherlock.

Mycroft cocks his head slightly to one side, the movement barely noticeable.  If Lestrade was not accustomed to reading Sherlock’s subtle body cues, he probably would have missed it.  “You as well, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade waits, but the man just stands silently in front of his desk, motionless.  Finally, when the silence becomes too uncomfortable, Lestrade gestures to a chair.

“Please have a seat.”

“Thank you.”  Mycroft sits, casually crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and propping his umbrella against his thigh.  “It is good to finally meet you in person.”

“I’d say the same, but Sherlock’s never actually mentioned you before.”

Mycroft smiles at this, looking genuinely amused, and Lestrade is surprised to feel a little flutter in his chest at the sight of it.  Much like Sherlock, Mycroft’s smile changes his whole face, softening the severe lines and bringing warmth to his expression.  “And yet, I can see that my reputation precedes me.”

“Well,” Lestrade mumbles, not at all surprised that Mycroft picked up on his reaction, “John may have brought you up.”

“Ahh, yes, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says.  “We had a bit of a rough start, but I do like to think of him as an ally these days.”

“Yeah, he told me about your ‘rough start,’” Lestrade answers, suddenly irritated.  “You’re lucky I didn’t run you in for kidnapping.”

Mycroft’s smile reappears for a moment, but then his expression becomes serious.  “Detective Inspector, I care very much for Sherlock.  I know that he resents it, but I have a responsibility to look out for him and I take it very seriously.  At the time, I did not know much about Doctor Watson, and I chose the most expedient method of gathering data at my disposal.  You were around for some part of Sherlock’s… shall we say, bad years.  You must understand why I was concerned when his behavior changed so suddenly.”

“I… yeah, I do,” Lestrade answers, his irritation deflating as quickly as it had arrived.  In truth, he had been a bit worried as well, initially.  But one does not have to spend much time with John to recognize that he is a good man and a good influence on Sherlock.  By that first evening, when Sherlock had independently looked to John for guidance on a social gaffe, Lestrade knew that they were a good match.  “I’m still not going to tell you anything about Sherlock, though.”

Another genuine smile.  “I expected nothing less.  Despite everything, Sherlock has managed to surround himself with trustworthy people, hasn’t he?”

Lestrade narrows his eyes.  “If you didn’t think I would tell you anything, why are you here?”

“Well…,” Mycroft starts, dropping his gaze for the first time in the conversation.  He idly twirls the handle of his umbrella with one hand.  “I guess I just wanted to finally meet you in person.  Sherlock speaks of you in the most glowing terms.”

“Does he?” Lestrade asks, suspicious.

“Indeed.  I believe the words he used were ‘not a complete idiot all of the time.’  At one point I think he also called you ‘somewhat useful.’”

Lestrade cannot help it; he giggles.  Mycroft joins him, cheeks flushing pink as he chuckles softly.  “Well, Sherlock certainly does know how to pay a compliment,” Lestrade says, grinning.

“That’s one way of looking at it, yes,” Mycroft responds.  He pauses, and then adds, “And you, Detective Inspector?  How would _you_ describe _him_?”

Lestrade looks at him sharply, brow creased, but Mycroft’s expression is smooth and open.  Lestrade considers his answer for a moment before responding.  “I’d call him a right pain in my arse, a great resource for the Yard, and one of the finest men I know.  But don’t tell him I said that last bit; I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Certainly.”

Lestrade pauses, not sure if he really wants to hear the answer, and then asks, “What about you, then?  How do you describe Sherlock?”

Mycroft draws a breath, but then hesitates.  Quirking his head to one side, he regards Lestrade with a mildly surprised expression and says, “You know, these days I’m really not sure.  I don’t think I know him as well as I used to.”

“Hmm.”  That is a better answer than Lestrade was expecting, based on John’s warnings about the animosity between the two.

As Lestrade watches, Mycroft’s eyes lose focus and shift to a point over Lestrade’s shoulder.  His face softens, his expression fond at first but then falling until he looks almost sad.  Lestrade watches but does not speak, not wanting to interrupt whatever he is thinking.

Presently, Mycroft seems to realize that he is distracted.  His expression hardens noticeably as he pulls his gaze back to Lestrade’s face.  Lestrade feels another of those unexpected warm flutters as he watches Mycroft bring his armour back up.  The man really does remind him of Sherlock in some ways, despite the fact that they look almost nothing alike.

“If you think he’s difficult to deal with now, you should have seen him as a child,” Mycroft says suddenly, breaking the brief silence that has fallen.

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

Mycroft’s smile turns wider, more genuine.  “When he was seven, he spent two weeks claiming to be a pirate.  He annexed several rooms of the house and tried to charge the servants and me a fee for safe passage whenever we went in.”  Lestrade grins, picturing a tiny curly-headed boy solemnly demanding coins of a teenaged Mycroft.  “I refused, of course, so he hit me with his sword.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t make you walk the plank,” Lestrade says, chuckling.  Mycroft laughs with him.

“That came later, when I took the money he had collected and returned it to the servants.”

“Oh God, people actually paid him?”  Lestrade laughs harder, clutching his stomach with one hand.

“Oh yes.  He was quite fierce.”

“I can imagine.”  Lestrade shakes his head and lets his giggles die out, the smile lingering on his lips as he thinks about Sherlock and Mycroft as children.  He looks up after a moment, and catches Mycroft looking back at him with an open expression that causes a bloom of warmth in his chest.

For several long moments, neither of them look away.

“Well, Detective Inspector, it has been a pleasure meeting you, but I must be going.”  Mycroft says all at once, moving to stand up.  He grips his umbrella with one hand as he unfolds himself from the hard office chair.

“Oh, right,” Lestrade answers, feeling slightly caught off-guard by the abrupt departure.  He stands and hurries around his desk, extending his hand to the other man.  “It was good to meet you, too, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mycroft, please,” Mycroft says as he takes Lestrade’s hand.  His grip is firm and warm, and again Lestrade notices how soft his skin feels.  “And you don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“Well, it’s like you said, your reputation preceded you.  But I have to say, John’s warning about a ‘possible criminal mastermind’ seems a bit overdramatic.”  Lestrade grins.  “Also, call me Greg.”

“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft smiles back, and Lestrade swallows.  He is finding it difficult to look away from Mycroft’s eyes.

They both fall silent, looking at each other.  It takes several seconds for Lestrade to notice that Mycroft is still holding his hand.

As soon as he does, he is immediately self-conscious.  He clears his throat and drops his eyes, releasing Mycroft’s hand and scrubbing his own across the back of his head.  Mycroft clears his throat as well, taking a small step back and fiddling with his umbrella.

“I had better be going,” Mycroft says, making no move toward the door.

“Right, yes.  I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“Yes.”

Silence falls again.  Lestrade looks at his shoes.

“Unless…” Mycroft starts, and then trails off.

“Hmm?” Lestrade looks up, his heart beating just a bit harder.

“Well, that is to say… I would be interested in continuing this conversation, if you are amenable.  I will be free later this evening.”

“Oh,” Lestrade says, grinning as an unexpected feeling of happiness bubbles up inside him.  “Yeah, that would be… nice.”

Mycroft breaks into a wide smile at this before quickly reining it in.  “Perfect.  Would you like to have dinner?  I can pick you up around seven.”

“That sounds good,” Lestrade answers, making a conscious effort not to sound too excited.

Mycroft answers him with another flash of that wide, sincere smile that makes his nose scrunch up and draws laugh lines around his eyes.  “Until later, then, Gregory.”

“Good bye, Mycroft.”  And with a little bow of the head, Mycroft is gone, twirling his umbrella in one hand.  Lestrade goes back around his desk and drops into his chair automatically, bemused.  Did he really just make a date with Mycroft Holmes?  He is not entirely sure what just happened, but he is still floating on that odd little bubble of happiness.

He grins as he realizes that he never gave Mycroft his address.  For some reason, he has no doubt the man will find his flat anyway.

After a short time, Lestrade straightens up and pulls the nearest file over, trying to put the encounter out of his mind.  He starts flipping through the documents, but realizes quickly that he is not really concentrating on what they say.  His mind keeps skipping back to Mycroft Holmes: his gestures, his mannerisms, his expressions.  The way that he seems so similar to Sherlock in some ways, but so different in others.

Lestrade is somewhat surprised to realize that he is really looking forward to getting to know the man better.  He has no idea what he is getting himself in to, but he is excited to find out.

This is going to be fun.


	9. Temporary Update

Hello. Sorry for this teaser non-chapter. I just wanted to let people know that I revised and updated the epilogue, because I'm not sure if AO3 sends out notifications of chapter edits. The content and emotional tone of the epilogue are significantly different now, but the basic ending is unchanged, just to warn you.  Also, for anyone who has any questions about why I revised the chapter or why I took the story in the direction that I did, you can find an explanation [here](http://lapislazulilong.tumblr.com/post/65824013414/comments-on-my-recent-story-update), at my Tumblr account.


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